Search Summer 2012

Introduction

The logs collected of Jeyth and Ruenalth's Clutch of Summer 2012!

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Dragon Eggs

This is a log of all twelve dragon egg descriptions.

Jeyth X Ruenalth - 61st PC clutch of Harper's Tale

Splish Splash Egg
Crystal clear aquamarine washes over the majority of this egg's shell, interrupted with occasional ripples of cobalt and splashes of cream. Strangely symmetrical blotches of color appear all over with gold checks forming a star shape over here while tan and navy lines appear to be a wheel over there. Towards the bottom of this egg crimson and ivory marks clustered into a pyramid while on the top there are graceful curves of blue and white.

Careful of the Current Egg
The tranquil patches of forest green and russet brown have been pushed apart by the violent stripe that snakes its way across the shell. Having too much energy for just one color, the stripe is constantly shifting as it curves about the shell with hints of payne's grey here and patches of azure there. There is a spot where it calms down into a deep indigo, but its small compared to the streaks of slate and cerulean. Along this treacherous path, a small dash of crimson fights to make its way out of a patch of frothy cream.

White Elephant of Athletics Egg
Feast your eyes upon this marvel of engineering — the egg, the acme of architectural perfection, its glory epitomized in the sleek, modern contours of this one ovoid shape. Light reflects gently off its silvery surface, girdled with swooping rings of steel and platinum that seem to interlock in patterns of complex perfection. This is an aspiration, a glimpse of a future in which the striving of all sentient beings is realized. But like most aspirations it is not perhaps as flawless as at first it seems. The side of the egg that rests on the sands — what can be seen of it — looks just… slightly warped, its looping bands flexing as if under some heavy strain, and its colors stained faintly with tarnish and grime. What rot has beset this wonder? …Will it spread?

Perfect Poise Egg
If ever an egg could be described as full of both power and grace, then this one would likely be it. Loomingly large amongst its siblings, the darkness of its glistening shell does little to diminish its overbearing stance - and yet upon coming closer, there's really nothing at all sinister about it. The powerful, polished deep brown of its shell has almost muscular-like patterns hidden beneath tiny, hide-like striations of umber and chestnut, while a million-striped whorl of hair curls around the narrowed apex. Oil-slicked black flashes near the base, where flashes of white merge to bandage the rounded bottom, accenting the perfect pirouette of precisely-placed feet.

Open to Interpretation Egg
Supple tan, sparkling turquoise, delicate pink; all whirl into one slender ovoid to create a kinetic pattern that simply oozes artistic elegance. Hidden within a swirl of rosy ribbon that encircles the egg from top to bottom is a figure; dancing within the pink, seemingly caught behind the masterfully-placed, delicate ripple of a ribbon that is directed with absolute expertise. The figure within is sparkle-spangled, turquoise blue studded with diamonte and laced with dainty patterns that twinkle and glisten against Ista's dark sands, and the light cast upon them.

London Calling Egg
For all it may have been pushed aside to make way for something far more exciting, the smog-ridden presence that encompasses the majority of this egg refuses to be denied. Crowning its peak is a glittering jewel; neon-lit whites and lush grassy green surrounded by a mantle of peachy pebbles and watery blue. But beyond that, beyond the glare of international fame and glory, is a grimier tale built upon millennia of civilisation: buildings both new and old huddled side by side in the city gloom, straddling cobblestones and tarmacadam alike. White-and-black Tudors nestle alongside Gothic relics, which in turn rub shoulders with solid-glass skyscrapers, all pressing close in the hustle and bustle of a busy city - all waiting with bated breath for the heavens to open and the deluge to begin.

Cheering, Roaring, Crowded Egg
The base of the egg is white, streaked with black, or brown, or gold in various defined and yet somehow still indescribable shapes. As the white reaches the middle of the egg, it erupts into a flurry of color. Tan, brown, black, cream, peach - all of these and more are visible in the mishmash of color upon the egg's shell. Here and there upon the shell are bits of orange, blue, red, and a few other colors. The top of the egg is a sky blue, rimmed with an odd yellowish tint.

You'll Never Skate Again! Egg
Like a collapsible police baton to the knee, this egg is a bludgeon to the senses. Awash with garish shades, it is top-heavy, the apex seemingly padded in a fashion trend gone awry. An obnoxious rainbow shimmer coalesces in large, ridiculous patterns to form a frame for the delicate lacework which plunges in a reveal of peek-a-boo flesh tones along the sides. Precise and dizzying, yet a marvel to behold, are the pale, icy whorls that swoop and circle the circumference, creating a tear-producing whole on Ista's sands.

My, You Look Fletching Egg
Copper and bronze hues wrap up the shell like tinfoil, waiting to expose the prize underneath. Painted jags of black makeup smear across the sides as if a piece of ash did a fly by. Hidden just under the sands enveloping touch are feathery white pinions interrupting the copper in precise strokes. If anything, this egg is probably quite aerodynamic.

Trinity Egg
Bleached white robes the egg with unwrinkled splendor from top to bottom. The white motif is uniform and entirely unremarkable except for the thick black band constricting its midpoint. The edges of the belt trail down on either side, wavering as they go. And let's not forget the cap of crimson that hugs the narrowest part of the egg's top.

Flame On Egg
Black metal burnishes and locks about the bottom like a vise. Rumpled and crumpled, the shell appears to have multiple layers that build about the midpoint and taper at the top, burning in bright lemon yellows, burnished golds, and crimson tongues that flicker their crackling essence about the outer edges. Cobalt blue dares to peek out from the dead center like an unblinking eye. Keep your eye on the prize.

Sweeping the Competition Egg
Places northern, places chilled, places frosted as nacre leaves a hoarfrost along the shell of this sizable egg, a frozen sheen upon which the colors play a game of strategy. Blue hone granite, a glossy wet that smooths along the base, curls perfectly round, set exactly as it was meant to be. A length of virgin white leads to the apex and a target of cardinal inside ivory inside cyan. Breaking away to sweep furiously across the shell is a dart of ebony, putting the hammer down and right into that topping target.

Rocco's Search

Dedanseth insists.

MOO Time: 2012-06-17 23:15:55
And on Pern …
The time is 21:15.
It is late night of the sixteenth day of autumn.
It is the twenty-fifth Turn of the Tenth Interval.
It is an autumn late night.

Klah Field
Large, bushy topped oak trees circle and shade four rows of growing klah. The klah trees are set in four long, straight lines of fully grown, six feet tall trees. However, small, potted seedlings (labeled to indicate experiments with soil) line the west edge of the field.
The warm, sandy soil looks properly watered, and the newly turned earth clings to the base of each tree.
The healthy green on deep-green leaves hang gracefully like the spread wings of flocking, young birds moving, jumping and soaring in even the slightest breeze.
The crisp smell of autumn floats on the air.
It is an autumn late night.

Rocco
Left long enough to brush his shoulders, Rocco's soft, pale ash blonde hair is groomed to perfection - but that doesn't stop it from frequently falling in the way of his big, light blue eyes. The finely-chiselled features of his face leave him looking slightly angular, though the formerly refined slope of his narrow nose has been marred by a small bump that pays tribute to a break or two in the past. Along the curve of his narrow jaw, down to his slender chin, Rocco has a neatly-trimmed, fluffy blonde rendition of a beard; nothing more than a thin strip that's clearly tended on a daily basis. The plump curve of his lips, so often found pouted, is coloured a rosebud pink, the perfect complement to his clear complexion - which, of late, has been kissed by Rukbat to a light golden (and often sunburnt) shade, making the freckles on his cheeks stand out a little more. In terms of his figure, Rocco is slender, willowy, standing a very leggy 5'7. He may be a delicate slip of a man by appearances, but his fine-honed limbs and dainty mannerisms are deceptive of the musculature they truly home, cultured by his craft.
Dressed for Ista's warmth, Rocco wears a light, short-sleeved shirt made from white cotton, the first few buttons left loose while the bottom is tucked neatly into his knee-length, khaki-hued shorts. On his feet he wears a sturdy pair of well-worn - yet well cared-for - ankle boots, the brown leather slightly faded with age, white socks showing neatly folded at the top. His shoulder-length blonde hair is tied back with a thin black ribbon, held in a low ponytail at his nape, and the light hues of his outfit complements his sun-kissed (and more often than not sunburnt) skin. Rocco wears a woven bracelet around his wrist.
Rocco's knot is that of a Healer Student, posted to Ista Weyr.
He is a young adult of about 21. He is awake and looks alert.

Ellen
Ellen is a child that lives under a mess of stringy dirty-blond hair, bound back in a stubby braid plagued by flyways. No part of her bothers for delicacy, she's tall for her age and heavy-built, long bones thick and solid in a build that holds up pretty mannishly. Her shoulders are sturdy, her wrists thick, her skin tone already beaten into a rusty tan that supports a few muddy sun spots on the bridge of her nose. In the middle of it all are a pair of lively half-moon eyes, faded to a gray-green and set under heavy eyelids - makes for a frequent squinted look. Her brows are invisible-blond, their presence known through furrowing.
There's a lot of flagrant disregard in Ellen's clothes; they're mostly meant for girls to wear, white peasant blouses laced up the front with occasional embroidery, halter tops in hotter months to expose some blunt, bony-hard shoulders and a frequent jingle of bracelets that get caught up around her forearms. Her choice in pants are utilitarian, the knees often blasted out and patches on the ass, solid boots trade out at times with sandals that don't stay on for long. The greatest consistent feature is a pervasive sense of sloppy grubbiness. If it's not soiled, stuck through with hay or hung off a shoulder, give her a minute. It will be. A blue firelizard is perched on her shoulder.
She is a child of about 7. She is awake and looks alert.

Lanti
As the Turns have passed, time has chiseled away most of the softness from Lanti's body, leaving behind angles lean and stark, though not altogether harsh. She is a shade taller than average, but her skinny frame serves to make her look just a bit taller than she really is. Lanti sports the same red-gold hair of her mother, its waves just brushing her shoulders. From her father she has inherited eyes of a clear sky blue with darker flecks of navy, and her pale lips form a generous mouth. The rigors and demands of her profession have given Lanti a muted but harder edge, only strengthened by her intensity.
Dressed for some serious riding, Lanti's outfit is made of leather, and little else. At least, not that the casual observer could see. Her boots and wide riding belt are heavy black leather, against which the metal rings and clips shine like silver. Her trousers and jacket are also leather, dark brown and trimmed in glossy, thick cording of Istan orange. On the back of her jacket, the symbol of Ista Weyr has been embroidered in sleek black and orange thread. If headed Between or colder altitudes, Lanti usually wears a white scarf that peeks from behind the collar of the jacket, and her leather riding helmet with goggles. A blue firelizard is perched on her shoulder.
Orange and black twist and weave in an artful arrangement that shows Lanti's rank to be that of Ista Weyr's Weyrlingmaster, despite the gold thread that also winds its way throughout.
She is an adult of about 45. She is awake and looks alert.

Dedanseth
Twilight casts a glow to the sheen of her body, transforming rich gold into platinum. Iridescence coats the delicate features of her face, blending a long, well-shaped nose with round, high cheekbones and an elegant jaw line. Gold specks in the shape of a teardrop rest between her eyes, surrounded by tiny filaments of blue that interlock to create a delicate lattice. The configuration of lines cascades down her neck, across her shoulders and over the backs of her wings, deepening the color without marring the brightness of her hide, the evening-washed gold showing through the mesh. Upon this shimmering backdrop, brighter flecks dot the expanse of her body, appearing at times as crisp pin points or casual traces of light that fade from sight at their ends. They mingle over the bottom side of her wings and chin, gliding across her wingspars and down her throat, erupting brilliant white-gold flares at her wingjoints and breast. Shadows of cobalt wrap around her hips and shoulder joints in a swath of darkness before lightening to gold on her willowy legs.
Dedanseth is 26 Turns, 2 months, and 12 days old.
She is 81 feet (27m) long, with a wingspan of 135 feet (45m).
Dedanseth seems to be listening.

[canine]
Eerie
A whisper of phantoms, his father's shadow through and through: the canine dwells in the midnight witching hour, his coat black, blacker, blackest. From whence he comes it is always known, enormous size constructed on powerful lines, sheer muscle well-balanced by tapering length and lithe shape. A true beauty, he is handsome, strong, both ears prone to flop in his general, curious investigations of the world around, but quick to prick straight upon the first signs or scent of alarm. Only at his end does his form pay homage to his dam and betray him for not-his-sire where his tail meets a premature end with its rounded stub.
He is 4 months and 21 days old.

A brisk autumn breeze rustles the leaves of the klah trees, the soft scent of their fragrant foliage carrying far beyond the boundaries of the field they're in. With Rukbat creeping ever closer to the horizon and the sky painted an ever-changing palette of golden-red to star-spangled black, the light beneath the canopy is quickly fading - but the lack of light isn't bothering one particular blonde, who is meandering through the trees, making a haphazard path back in the general direction of Grinstead Hold.

It's a sound before it's a shape, and it's a shadow before it's a sound. Oil-slick black and rushing through the underbrush, the scrape of hurried claws, a branch swinging back into place, leaf litter raining down in kicked-up rooster tails. And in the center of it all, a rounded forehead, two dark eyes and a bright pink tongue, all sounding off the panting engine of a bounding puppy. "Eeeeeeerie!" Pat-pat-pat-pat! Bare feet pound down the trail, Ellen cresting abruptly into sight. Seven turns old and gone astray again, it would seem, her stubby prawn-sized braid has graduated to a jumbo shrimp and her husky body is managing to get some torso length. More than necessary, perhaps. Her cute embroidered halter top encases a child's body built like a railroad tie. "'Scuse me, mister," the black puppy bounds past Rocco's left, Ellen banks for the right, both panting.

Lanti and Dedanseth are just two growing shadows as the sun heads toward the western horizon, though the dragon's hide still makes her conspicuous. The rider is standing in what is left of the sunlight, helmet hanging from the dragon's straps, her gloves clutched tightly in one hand as she stares at one of the local farm crafters. The older man points toward the Hold several times, makes placating gestures, then scoots off as his skinny, knobby knees will allow, soon disappearing into Grinstead Hold. Lanti turns, looking up at Dedanseth's raised head, then off toward Rocco, Ellen and the bounding puppy.

Rocco draws to a halt as there's an Ellen barreling towards him, hands coming up defensively in front of his chest as he pulls a scrunched up face that's all 'shit, don't hit me'. When the pair pass by collision-free he looks over his shoulder at the puppy-chase. His hands lower, splinted fingers resting against his thigh as he tucks one thumb into the pocket of his shorts. Once he's sure he's not about to get puppy/Ellen-ttacked, he continues his limping way towards the Hold, and towards Lanti. "Evening, weyrwoman," he calls out to her before he's quite made it all the way to her, lifting fingers to his temple in a jaunty salute.

The puppy, solid black and glossy with loose skin and a mastiff's variety of stocky muscles, does not get far past Rocco before Ellen manages a flying leap that instantly blows out her knees, locking her arms around the fleeing canine in full grim faced tackle. She lands purposefully with the puppy on /bottom/, and while it had started out with a heart-breaking guilt trip of a yelp, once she has him pinned on his back (where very clearly, it is a /he/) he begins to crazy-wriggle-wag and tries to slap at the underside of Ellen's chin with his tongue. Ellen, however, is looking up from her mini dominance battle at Rocco's hail. Weyrwoman? She mouths the word. "C'mon, Eerie," she hops up and trots along after Rocco, notching in right beside him as though they were here together, "What happened t'/you/, mister?" She asks as they stroll, the puppy orbiting them, and once they near Lanti she pantomimes a little casual curtsey - she has to just pantomime as there's only invisible skirt to pinch - and smiles, "Do ya, lady." A highly archaic greeting, and husky with little puppy teeth of her own.

Lanti unbuttons her riding jacket with a degree of relief, though her gloves continue to flap somewhat from one hand. She nods with some formality in return to Rocco's greeting, while the child's own version tugs half a smile out of her. "Thank you, both," the rider states, allowing the unexpected amusement to relax the ritualistic reply. Dedanseth eases herself down to a prone position, slender forelegs stretched out in front of her, careful to avoid squishing any living creatures, be they human or canine. Large eyes that nearly seem to glow reflect faceted shades of deep, royal blue. Lanti's study shifts from dragon to young man to much younger girl before she tucks her gloves into the hanging riding helmet. "Weyrlingmaster, actually."

"I fell off a runner, Ellen." Rocco looks down at the girl, brow furrowed slightly. "Out in Telgar. Damned thing spooked when it saw a.. well, I don't know /what/ she saw, but it was apparently scary as heck." The blonde shrugs one shoulder, a hint of a wince tweaking the unbruised side of his face. "/Weyrlingmaster/ Lanti?" That catches him by surprise, and he tilts his head at the goldrider curiously. "I'm not sure I've ever heard of a weyrwoman who's also a Weyringmaster. Congratulations on your new knot, though - I was looking at the clutch earlier. They're pretty against the black sand, aren't they?"

"Yikes," Ellen is pretty baldly checking out Rocco's damage, her invisi-blond eyebrows hiked way up. "You see my scab?" It's trading war wound stories, apparently, and she points her elbow at Rocco and then turns to show off to Lanti as well, all flippant and too-cool, "I din' fall /off/ a runner but I was playin' with one. Maybe yours was just a knucklehead like mine, I near got run down by 'im. D'you know my aunt?" This is to Lanti, "She's an assisant weyrlingmaster. Um. Her name's Sienna? She rides Kehemaths?" Yes, she says 'maths'. Like what she doesn't like to learn in Harper lessons. "Can I say hit t'your dragon?" She is scooping up the black puppy while asking this, her hair falling across her face wildly.

Lanti observes the exchange in stillness, only her eyes flicking toward Dedanseth's narrow head briefly before returning to Young and Younger. Finally, those eyes narrow as she takes in Rocco's apparent health, though at the same time she nods her thanks. "First time for everything. So far so good. And to be honest, aside from confirming the tally, I hadn't looked too closely yet. Though I suppose I should." This might be said with a small smile, though in the growing darkness it's likely harder to tell. It's easier to see the flash of vivid green that swirls through Dedanseth's nearest eye. Lanti has a more even smile for Ellen this time as she sticks her hands in her trouser pockets. "I do indeed know Sienna. And say whatever you like! Dedanseth's hide is plenty thick. Who's the puppy?"

Rocco wrinkles his nose at Ellen, peering at her scab. "It's… lovely," he comments, not /really/ looking at the wound. "She might've been a, er, knucklehead. I didn't even get any marks back from the guy I loaned her from, either, even though I turned up to him barely conscious." That's an exaggeration, emphasized by a roll of his big blue eyes as he shakes his head. "Broken fingers," Rocco shows off the two splinted on his right hand, "bruises /everywhere/, concussion, sprained something in my /thigh/, of all things… I could /barely/ sit in a saddle." When Ellen asks to speak to Dedanseth, the beautician-come-Healer's gaze flickers over to the gold's head. "She's looking well, Weyrlingmaster Lanti. I'm sure you'll do a pretty awesome job of it, right? There's always got to be a first for everything."

"You should report him t'the Herders," Ellen advises in all her worldliness, though she isn't joking; a hard moment of frown comes forward, "Momma'd snatch that man baldheaded, 'f he's lettin' his runners throw folk. My dad got thrown once. He said he /ate/ the runner for it. I think he was pullin' my leg. This is /Eerie/," she hoists up the canine higher (he keeps slipping down in his own loose skin, if one could judge by paws and head, this canine is destined to get monsterous when he's grown), "Y'know the Chadey? They had a canine die. Um. His name was Sinister? And Sinister was kinda my friend, and this is one of his babies. He made'm before he died. So I named Eerie, 'cause eerie is just a /little/ sinister, y'know?" She drops the puppy again, as it's easier than contending with the bicycling paws, and they trot forward to murmur to the gold dragon, "Gosh you're /big/… Hi. I'm Ellen! Um. I'm a Herderbrat, okay?"

"And sometimes a second," Lanti says in a quieter, musing tone. She stares hard at Rocco for a moment, then glances up at Dedanseth where the staring shifts, intensifies, then shifts again. Evening in the deepening dusk, the scrutiny is likely obvious. The stark study abates somewhat as Eerie is presented in all his puppy glory. Ever the soft (if awkward) spot for children (even the ugly ones), Lanti relaxes enough to give Ellen a brief nod that comes close to the shallowest of bows. Mostly just acknowledgement, but she might be off her game at the moment. "If there are more puppies…" The diversion is shaken off, however, with a toss of her head. There is business at hand. She focuses on Rocco while Dedanesth lifts her own head. The better to see you all, my dears. With some distraction in her tone, Lanti informs Ellen that "big" is a purely relative term. To Rocco the weyrlingmaster adds, "You're broken. But Des is insisting that I ask. Would you consider standing for for Jeyth's clutch?"

Snorting softly, Rocco shakes his head at Ellen. "It wasn't his fault the runner got scared. Wasn't the runner's fault either, she didn't know any better. It was /my/ fault for… not paying attention." Whatever he was going to say is censored, a softer alternative put into its place, given current company. "I wouldn't put it past your dad to eat a runner, either. But your puppy's cute.. he'll be bloody /huge/, if he's got Sinister's blood." Because even Rocco knew the Chadey canine! The scrutinising look from Lanti is met with curiosity, one blonde brow arched questioningly above the fading bruise of his black eye. When he's questioned, his expression shifts to pure surprise. "That's… unexpected." He looks from the weyrlingmaster to her dragon, then to Ellen, then back to Lanti again. "Y'know… /sure/. That… that'd be pretty awesome, actually."

Ellen is pondering all the manners in which 'big' could be defined, seeming intent on taking Lanti's wise words on board. Indeed, Rocco's contribution gets a murmur, "…guess so, yeah. If Eerie's big, an' then your, uh, gold's big, they're both /big/ but it's a different kinda big - woah, really?" She turns around, her pouchy face all screwed around an excited grin, "You're gettin' Searched, guy? S'/pretty/ cool. You want some luck?" She extends her fist. There's nothing /in/ her fist, she's just offering a knuckletap. "I'm a lucky, y'know. Y'don't bet against me." She taps the side of her nose while saying it.

"It's nothing personal," Lanti says as an afterthought toward Ellen. "Youth, while also relative, is far easier to define. And therefore has more definitive rules. With good reason." This might seem to amuse her for all of a moment, but there are distractions afoot, and she needs to chase them down before Rukbat is good and gone for the night. "You stood at 'Reaches, yes?" Lanti has memories of such, it seems. "So you know the rules? Ista may embrace the island life in some ways, but if I find any candidate breaking the rules, your ass is going to hurt for a Turn after my boot rearranges it. Got it? Still want to Stand?"

"I did stand back home, yeah. That's a turn or so back now, I think? Those rules are still pretty well stuck in here, though." Rocco taps his splinted fingers gently against his temple, nodding his head. "It'd be an honour to stand, Weyrlingmaster Lanti, and trust me, I've had my fill of a sore ass for the time being - it's just no /fun/." He grins, winking at the rider, before holding out his uninjured hand for Ellen's knuckletap. "I /always/ need a bit of luck, kid. A little bit of luck can go a long, long way…" That grin gets bigger as he looks back to Lanti. "No booze, no sex? Not gonna be a problem… I promise."

"Sure, lady," Ellen, being seven, has the odds against her that she entirely understands what Lanti said, but she has a genuine smile for it all the same, tossing her bread behind her while giving Rocco a rather gentle fistbump. You'd think she knew how to behave around injured men. "Say, listen. I gotta scoot. I gotta get back before aunt Sienna finds I'm gone or I'ma get my ass in a sling, sure bet. I'll see ya, okay?" She turns and over-enthuses a double-handed salute to Lanti, which means she looks like she's directing air traffic, "Catch ya later, lady. And dragon… lady. Ladygolddragon. I forgot your name!" She says this last part while RUNNING AWAY. And laughing while doing it. Eerie accidentally runs after his tail for a full rotation before managing to figure out how to follow. He's got fast legs, he'll catch up.

Lanti takes a slow, deep breath, eyes usually blue now nearly black in the twilight. "If those are the only rules you gleaned…" There is a low, rolling sound from Dedanseth that interrupts the rider just as Ellen and Eerie beat their retreat. The dragon's sound is quite a growl, but not a hum either. It is insistent, and Lanti gives in with a hand held against against the gold's hide. "We'll talk about it on the way." The details will be left to the imagination.

Lucian's Search

Zari asks Lucian to stand for Jeyth's clutch.

Craft Areas
Neatly carved out of the rock, this passage runs straight and wide. The floor is smooth, years of traffic wearing it down in the middle. Glows illuminate the passage, giving it warmth, and doors line both sides, each neatly inscibed with the name of the craft housed within.
Divebombing you from above is a bronze firelizard.
Lucian is here.
Obvious exits:
Dolphineers' Area     Miners' Area     Infirmary     Herder's Area     Caverns     Smiths' Area     Weavers' Area     Harpers' Area     Bakers' Area     Vintners' Area     Starcrafter's Area

The soft pad of bare feet echoes through the hall as Zari makes her way towards the Smiths' Area, straps woven in deep and earthy greens slung over her shoulder and across her chest.

A soft humming gradually grows in strength and volume as Lucian makes his way out of the Smith area. The heavier clomp of his boots on the stone floor mixes with the sound and perhaps a light wiff of sawdust. Over his shoulder is slung a worn hide satchel, in his hands just what seems to be a few random scraps of wood. Finding himself not entirely alone in the passage be offers Zari a nod and a pleasant, "Hello."

Lucian
The first thing of note with this young man is, well, he's not small. Tall, usually about a handwith taller than most people in a room, his build is not so much muscled as simply oversized even a bit pudgy in spots with that awkward quality that makes it seem like he hasn't quite grown into his mass yet. His hair is a tangled curled reddish mess that makes it look like someone dumped a bowl of red pasta sauce over his head. His eyes are the kind of hazel that shifts color in the light and at times appear to do so with his mood. Prominent cheekbones, a nose that perhaps a bit to wide and flat dusted with a couple hundred little freckles of various shades of brown, and add a workable set of lips and there you have him, more or less.
A thick lightly green colored tunic hangs on him in a manner of one that grows to often to worry about a tailored fit.  Below, faded black pants with just a few utility pockets and more than a few patches, fastened at the top by a wide black belt, stretch down to a pair of old black boots that look like their cobbled together from two older pairs.
He wears a knot with a double cord and single loop in colors that marks him as a Smith Apprentice posted to Ista Weyr.
He is a teenager of about 19. He is awake, but seems rather distracted.

Zari slows as the larger man fills her view—most people do, but Lucian more than most, it would seem. Her bespectacled gaze travels upward, taking the time to note details before coming to rest on the features of his face. A twitch to her thoughtful gaze — recognition? interest? amusement? — and she nods a silent greeting, but continues on her way. Though something halts her steps just beyond the Smiths' doorway, she does not immediately turn back to address him.

He is a large… Well he's just large. From his still mostly patchwork boots, to his lucky green tunic, to that red mop he tries to pass off as hair. Lucian may dwarf many but with that warm little smile curling his lip few find it something to worry about. And the way he steps just a bit back to make sure he's not in her way suggests perhaps he worries about it a bit to much. His brown eyes catch the light in just the right way to take on a hint of green as he watches Zari slip past. There is a slight tilt to his head, a look almost akin to a puzzled puppy, then a shrug and his deep humming starts to continue as he turns to continue on.

Zari clears her throat, the sound as vast in the echoes of the hallway as the susurration of her steps, before turning to face the mammoth of a man. "Apprentice?" Her tone is firm, if unassuming. Her gaze flicks to the cord on his shoulder as if to double-check the assumption, though there is only so much one can surmise from her particular vantage. She shifts the weight of her lifemate's straps on her shoulder, the burden uncomfortable despite the thick padding meant to cushion soft dragonhide from chafing. "Woodsmith, yes?"

Lucian's shoulder bears no knot what with their recent banning inside the weyr. Still a nod and a soft, "Correct, such as I am." is offered as she makes her guess. His eyes narrow a bit as his gaze drifts to the straps on her shoulder. The load of wood in his hands is shifted, the bits clunking together and letting out light puffs of sawdust, as he tries to free up a hand to offer to ease her burden. His mouth is starts to form the words 'Can I' as he lifts his foot about half way through a step forward before he stops himself. Seeming to have decided for whatever reason that offering help might be insulting he shifts backwards, looking more than a bit sheepish, "Mostly small decorative things but…" He pauses there and chuckles softly, awkwardly, the sound almost the deep rumble of a tiny dragon. "Of course if you needed anything you would ask Journeyman or a master. Sorry."

Zari presses her lips together, the expression more thoughtful than annoyed, as she gives him another, quicker, once-over. "How long have you been here?" she asks, dismissing his offer and the path of conversation that might follow with her query. Her gaze flicks to the wood in his hands and then back to his face.

"Here?" Lucian frowns slightly, a hint of white showing as he bites his lip, one eye open slightly wider than the other as he gazes at the ceiling appearing thoughtful. "Three, or four turns now I think? I never was particularly good with dates." He looks back down to her with a wide smile, "Too distracted I guess." He blinks, following her gaze to the wood in his hands. He lifts it slightly, which does more to hurt he seeing the contents than help. "This is just some scraps, I've been trying to figure out a way to make a good solid bowl out of them. You get lovely patterns and colors with the different kinds of wood if you carve them into interlocking pieces. But it seems no matter what I do they always seem to fall apart."

Zari's expression waxes distant, as a rider's gaze is wont to do, a slight frown furrowing her brow as she wages an inward discussion. She waves, though it could be a dismissal of his words or those of her lifemate as her focus returns to the large young man. "You know there are eggs on the sands?"

Lucian's eyebrow arches just a moment as her gaze goes distant. He's certainly been around riders enough to be able to venture a guess on when a third has entered the conversation. "Yes, kind of hard to miss that kind of thing this place always gets so busy when there are eggs on the sands. Though I had heard that this clutch was a great deal smaller than the last." His eyes narrow a hair and his head cocks a bit to one side in a look best suited to a lost puppy. Well if that lost puppy happened to be Clifford. "Not sure what that has to do with how long I've been here before."

Zari's eyebrow arches in response, a daintily distorted mirror to his hulking features. "Jeyth," she says with a flick of her fingers, as if the name explains it all. Her eyes narrow then as she shifts her stance, weighing him. Finally, she releases a long-suffering sigh, then presses past him with quickened stride. "Follow, please," she quips, clearly expecting the command to be obeyed.

"Jeyth?" Lucian echoes, looking even more confused than previously."Jeyth." Again, this time with several rapid blinks tossed in for good measure. "Jeyth?.?" The third one brings with it a slight widening of the eyes an just enough of a slackening of his grip that the wood bits in his hands try for an escape. There is a bit of fumbling before he manages to get them all, somewhat awkwardly, under control once more. "Ah, yes Ma'am. Of course Ma'am." Is said with so little hesitation, and so naturaly that its almost like he's used to it. He's still trying to get the scraps situated and stable as he moves to follow, cutting his stride to match her smaller one.

Zari leads the big lad into the candidate barracks and, without much ado, sends drudges scurrying for cot and knot, and any other sundries Lucian might need from stores to get him through the next couple of hours. "The rules are posted. You will likely be briefed in the morning. You have between now and then to get your things in order. Congratulations, Candidate." She snatches the knot from the hand of a waiting drudge and tosses it at the smith-turned-sands-bait and grins wickedly. A flash of something… off… dances in the steel of her gaze before she turns and strolls casually out the door, acting as though the straps across her shoulders were no burden at all.

Somehow that knot hits just the right spot the awkward bundle of wood scraps Lucian was carrying that it puts just enough weight on just the right piece. And the whole load collapses, clattering to the ground in puffs of dust as he scrambles to try and catch them, some of them, any of them. In the end he's left on his knees, the new knot buried somewhere in the tangle and a single tiny piece caught in his oversized hands. "Uh, thanks, I think." staring at the retreating rider with a look that is a lovely mix of confusion and worry. "I wonder," He mutters finally looking down at the pile and starting to gather it up. "Naa, she could not possibly have done that on purpose." Another glance at the door. "Could she?"

Perry's Search

Gazebo
Closed on three of six sides by delicate, whitewashed laticework, the quaint little gazebo is covered by tiny flowering vines. Small blooms are abundant on the vines, adding a subtle scent to the air. The three open sides open to the southwest, turned to view the beach and pefectly placed to offer a view of the beautiful Istan sunset as well as a good view of the evening stars. To aid in watching, a swing hangs from the center of the gazebo, just big enough for two to enjoy a romantic moment.

MOO Time: 2012-06-20 09:13:12
Your Time: 2012-06-20 11:13:12
Internet Time: @634 beats
And on Pern …
The time is 07:13.
It is midmorning of the twenty-eighth day of autumn.
It is the twenty-fifth Turn of the Tenth Interval.
It is an autumn midmorning.

Perry
This young man has 'brown' down like it's going out of style. Brown hair kept short enough for government work, brown freckles that wax and wane in intensity based on how much sun they flourish in. His skin tone beneath the freckles is a dusky brown as well, adding a bit of island feel negotiably complimented by blue eyes and furry brows. He's average in size and height, 5'9 and a touch stocky in the neck and jaw.
Perry dresses like a clean and comely commoner, or at least in the style of one. Trousers and tunics fit, though that's the best that can be said of them, he's removed the lace keeping his collar synched for a little ventilation in the heat and on his days to himself he might cut off the bottom feet or two of his pants to air out his ankles. Perry wears Perry's Listening Tube around his neck.
A tail, a loop, also a tassle, formed by double cordage? That spells Sr. Apprentice, colors Healer aligned.
He is a teenager of about 18. He is awake and looks alert.

Ilae
Turns of practice have finally mostly tamed the rampant auburn curls upon Ilae's head. To keep them from becoming a hassle, the greenrider almost always keeps her hair no longer than her shoulders, and sometimes even shorter than that. Green eyes that once danced still show flashes of that youthfulness from time to time, but seriousness more oft than not is present within them. A jagged scar that has faded slightly over the turns is still visible on her left cheek, and the scars of threadscoring are still visible upon her neck. Narrow eyebrows and a gentle nose combine with a stubborn jaw and almost equally stubborn lips complete the woman, while calloused hands and tannish skin suggest she is no stranger to work or sun. Ilae stands at only five feet four inches tall.
A finely crafted pair of riding leathers adorn Ilae's frame. Neither sophisticated or simple, they are simply designed for comfort and warmth while riding. A pair of matching boots are upon Ilae's feet. Two firelizards are perched on her shoulders.
In as mint condition as a knot can be, the knot of a wingleader rests on Ilae's shoulder, in Ista Weyr black and orange. The badge below indicates her as the Wingleader of the Riptide wing. A thread of green through it denotes her as Suumanuth's rider.
She is an adult of about 30. She is awake and looks alert.
Ilae has no apparent threadscoring.

Suumanuth
Misty light and deep forest green hide stretches tight and shiny over an arcing skeletal form, highlighting wiry muscles and elongated features. A narrow muzzle and prominent cheek bones widen the helm-like head; the neck twiggy in comparison. Strokes of sparkling golden flesh wrap down each antennae-like headknob, embracing an empty swatch of leafy hue in the center. Willowy ribs bow into an armored cage with a dusty rubicund breastbone. There, darkest emerald flows over wide, rounded shoulders along the wings, pale coral underneath. Verdigris stretches across the muscular trunk down to a rounded point on the lower abdomen, freckled flush and ruddy. Protracted hind legs, paws dipped in pine, join to narrow viridian hips; taut hide causing the socket stands in relief. Kelly banded forelimbs are further exaggerated, one claw nearly white and serrated, the other algae tainted and strong. A wisp of a tail lashes out from her back side, composed largely of light moss covered muscle and lightning green splashed, pea-tinted ridges that run from the back of the head down to the spade tip.
A pair of riding straps smelling faintly of flowers are fastened to Suumanuth's neck.
Suumanuth seems to be listening.

Don't mind the young man standing lurksomely at the gazebo's entrance, one finger poised to poke a small flower that by rights was pointing at him first. It's midmorning in fine trappings, lush blue sky and lush blue water reflecting it, a cooling autumnal breeze coaxing the lower hem of Perry's tunic to orbit his hips once like a lazy cloth hoola hoop. In the non-flower-prodding hand he holds a notebook tucked against his abdomen. Prod.

For all that she is wearing boots, this redheads approach is one of practiced quiet. Efficient for startling unruly wingriders, perhaps? A package held in one hand, a curious look upon her face, the greenrider pauses when she spots the young man, and eyes him. "Did the flower offend you so?" She questions, tone dry. While she awaits a reply, she glances about the gardens. Expecting to find someone else, as well? Perhaps. In any case, it's rather quickly that the woman's intense gaze returns to the healer.

Suumanuth's attention is drawn through their mindlink when Ilae addresses a young man by the gazebo. The green dragon says nothing yet, merely impresses upon her rider to allow her to continue to watch. Permission is graanted, even as the green takes to the sky, to circle far, far overhead.

"Can flowers be offensive?" Philosophical. Kind of. Perry doesn't straight away look up, perhaps registering the quiet approach in peripheral if not the forefront of his cognitive lobes. He bears the flower down and then releases it to bob on its stem back up to its proper elevation. "Anyway, I - oh." At this point he lifts his eyes, half-way to scratching his nose but paused with a glance to his visitor's knot. He crooks half a dry smile, folding free hand over notebooked hand in a lazy embrace of his knowledge. "It's 'wingleader' isn't it?"

Ilae continues to watch the young man with a curious sort of intensity, though she does quirk a slight smile at his words. "Some would say they can." She's quiet for a moment as the healer apprentice looks up, taking the time to examine his own knot as well. "It is." She acknowledges, "not that I let most people call me that. How old are you, senior apprentice?" While the answer is awaited upon, the package in Ilae's hand is shifted to the other hand. The newly freed hand rubs her neck absently while she waits. "You can call me Ilae." It's added as an afterthought, as if there are other, more important things weighing on the wingleader's mind. …Like how old he is, apparently.

Suumanuth's interest in the young man grows twofold as he answers and presses more intensity upon her rider while she circles above, much like she does when choosing a choice bit of meat for her meals.
« What do you want, Suu? We're just talking. »
Suumanuth doesn't answer.

A tip of head enables Perry an overt study of the side of Ilae's neck where she rubs, clinical curiosity common to his trade and he doesn't remember to muster apology while eyeballing the curious network of scars found therein. "Ilae, then. If you'd prefer. I'm Perry, and eighteen, ma'am." Two states of being, one more permanent than the other. "Do you need assistance? I can do more than harry the plant life, anyway." He's relaxing, not that there was tension, propping a shoulder against a gazebo post and raising his brows to look out along the water, "Or you could come up. There's a view." He's plucking a flower while saying it, and in completion he gestures forward, the flower bobbling towards the ocean to imply said view's direction.
Ilae sighs to herself as her eyes briefly gain a distant, unfocused look anyone familiar with dragons might associate with communication between rider and dragon. Far above, what had been a distant dragon circling high above loses some of her altitude, just enough to make her shape more distinct…if the viewer isn't underneath something with a roof. "I was looking for someone, but that's not important right now." The dragonrider says after a moment. "More importantly, I do believe my dragon wants to meet you." Her hand drops from her neck, to shuffle the package again as she glances upward. The offer of the view has a brief smile crossing Ilae's face. "I've seen it before, thank you."
Suumanuth thinks to you, « I bespoke Perry with « You sense that Suumanuth is a sudden presence whom gives no words, but rather the feeling leaves the sense of being intensely scrutinized. As the feeling and presence fade, a distant roar of thunder can be clearly heard. » »

Suumanuth soars overhead and lands upon an unoccupied space of beach, finally choosing to impart words to her rider. « Meeting. Yes. »

Cue Perry's bemusement, almost skeptical as if not entirely sure he isn't missing a joke, "You're dragon? Do you know that I'm a dentist?" He doesn't rush to come down from the gazebo, turning his flower on himself now and tapping it to rest beneath his nose as if for a sniff while he puzzles. But two shadows come. One in physical, for while a dragon above can't be seen from beneath the gazebo roofing, its streaking monstro-bat shape can be seen in relief against the sunlight beach. And with it comes a more subtle shadow that crosses the young man's face. Like origami, his expression folds inwards with a hesitant discomfort. "That would her, I assume," he says mutely. He compresses his lips and seems to for a moment consult with his blossom, swallowing privately. And then takes a brisk inhale and trumple-trots down the few gazebo steps towards the greenrider. "Flower." He identifies it. And then hands it over like it's a ticket.

Ilae chuckles, and shakes her head slightly. "She hasn't told me why, but she definitely wants to meet you." She informs him, mildly amused. He's watched by the rider now as the dragon shadow makes it's way back to the beach, where the green dragon quickly lands in an unoccupied spot. The young man's reactions are noted, but not questioned - at least until his statement. "..I keep telling her to let me know before she does something like that." Ilae sighs. "I'm sorry." She offers him a wry smile, and accepts the flower-ticker with a bit of a questioning look. "Yes, flower." Ilae sets off in the direction of the beach, stepping as quietly as she did before. Apparently, it's just assumed he'll follow.

Main Beach
This long stretch of white sandy beach stands pristine among the beaches around Ista Island. The sand stretches off into the distance on either side of you, disappearing into the horizon. Several large uprooted trees dot the beach where they were most likely felled in a big storm. They look as if they'd make great benches, for people or firelizards alike. To the east, the crystal blue waters of the Hold cove roll up in gentle waves onto the beach, hissing softly as they ebb and flow. To the south, Ista Hold juts out of the cliff. Just west of here, a low bluff leads up to the grassy field that serves as the Hold's main gather grounds.

« He'll do. » The green informs her rider confidently. « The Sands. He'll do. »

Suumanuth examines the pair as they approach, her eyes a bright, whirling blue. The green dragon croons finally, glancing at her rider, before settling on the beach's sands. Ilae rubs her neck again, her eyes distant. "Oh. She…says you'll do." Ilae says, glancing at the healer. "Ista Weyr has a clutch on the Sands right now." She says, watching him. "Suumanuth wants you for that clutch."

Perry is swept along like flotsam on a jet stream, his eyes on the sky to watch the dragon's descent and his feet settled into a stroll more casual than his furrow of brow might suit. He's stuck his book under an armpit and then tucked hands into pockets, elbows loosely jutting out to either side like chicken wings. He meanders a bit on his trail through the gardens, placing feet squarely in the center of specific cobblestones to avoid stepping on cracks, and the green dragon - by nature the smallest of the dragons - appears plenty big to a Healer. Not that he doesn't approach her, hands still in pockets. "So." Pause. Smile? Smile-then-falls? Eyes snap to Ilae, "Hm? The what in the who now?"

Ilae smiles slightly. "A clutch of dragon eggs. At the Weyr." Ilae replies, her free hand shifting to go into a pocket. Suumanuth simply waits, watching. The dragon and rider are patient, watching the senior apprentice for his response. "We want you to Stand for it." Ilae adds after a moment, smiling slightly. "If you'll accept, we're taking you to the Weyr."

"What." It's not even a question, it's more a stall while Perry's brow furrows. "Now?" He looks down at himself, in off-duty attire and sandaled feet. He flaps his chicken wing arm while looking at his book and then flicks a glance over his shoulder towards the distant looming Hall. Then tucks his book into the back waist band of his pants and seizes his hands onto Suumanuth's straps, "I'll just climb up then, shall I?" So… apparently his answer is 'hell yeah'.

Ilae grins when Perry does. "Yes, you do. Just a word of warning next time; most dragons will want permission before you suddenly grab onto them." Ilae tucks the package into a pocket of one of the bags on Suumanuth's straps, and once Perry's on, she mounts quickly in front of him. "Okay, you put the straps on like this…" She'll show him how, this time, and make sure he's in good and tight. "Suumanuth doesn't give much time before she goes between, just as a warning!" Stolen cargo on board, Suumanuth launches. Once she's barely more than a dragonlength above ground, they slip into between.

Candidates' Barracks
Long and low, this large room angles back into the mountain in a near-perfect rectangle, devoid of windows and hearth. A functional room — the black volcanic rock has been painted with a cheerful mural, with the other walls painted in green and orange thoughtfully, before resuming the stark simplicity in the seemingly endless rows of cots that scatter back into the shadows. A small clothespress sits at the end of each puce-covered bed — yes, puce. Every cot sports a rather gaudy and obnoxiously purple cotton coverlet, leftovers from PranksPast. Boys to the right, girls to the left. Enjoy.
All in all, it doesn't take long after landing for Ilae to lead Perry to the Barracks, and get him set up with a brand new white knot. "Pick out a cot, and get to know your fellow candidates. Lunch isn't too far off, and we have an hour rest after that. The schedule's over there." A board is pointed at. "Congratulations, Candidate. Don't get caught without that knot! And with that, Ilae leaves again. Probably to return to trying to deliver that package…

"Thanks…" Perry is a quiet ride, wandering off into the barracks with only a belated glance over his shoulder and flicker of smile. Overwhelmed is the name of the game, though, isn't it… Every bed he passes gets a tap on the head board. Decisions, decisions.

Ashkir's Search

Kanga and Ru are at it again.

MOO Time: 2012-06-20 11:57:32
Internet Time: @748 beats
And on Pern …
The time is 09:57.
It is noon of the twenty-eighth day of autumn.
It is the twenty-fifth Turn of the Tenth Interval.
It is an autumn noon.

Galleries
Tier upon tier of benches worn slipper-smooth over the turns rise high in these galleries, encompassing a full third of the hatching cavern's wall. Each row is placed at such an angle to offer even those furthest back a clear view of the sands over the heads of those up front. Several lines of rope cordon off the sands proper. A precariously narrow pathway offers access to the multiple layers of dragon ledges that line the walls.
To view things on the hatching sands, see 'help here'.
Obvious exits:
Ledges Stairs

An autumn's noon finds the weyr fairly quiet; at least down at the hatching caverns area that is. While the clutchparents snooze on the sands, it seems that at least one rider does the same. A long, brightly woven towel has been draped across several benches, and draped upon that is a certain raven-haired lass, reclining on her back. The usual accoutrements are also present, to her left, a half depleted wineskin, to her right, some skin lotion and near her head, a towel boy who happens to be fanning her with a large palm leaf. He looks quite peaked as the sands heat penetrates, even somewhat to the level of benches, but it appears that a mug of something frosty is by his side as well. Mirroring her humanpet, a gold firelizard is on her back with wings and legs dangling over the bench sides.

At least this time Ashkir isn't lost when he makes his way up towards the gallaries. He's carrying a notebook that is tucked under his arm and a pencil and sheet of paper. He pauses to eye the specticle that is the rider lounging on the gallries. Interesting, that. The young man ambles down a couple rows and peers about the gallaries. Nope, no Pippa, so he'll plop on one of the benches and flip through the sheets, trying not to disturb the lounging woman.

Not a heavy sleeper, the little gold stirs from her slumber first, unfortunately falling off the bench with a resounding THUNK! And chittering away angrily; nobody saw anything, DID THEY? Kanga stirs a bit, reaching for her wineskin but finding she's a bit too parched for wine at the moment. Snapping her fingers, she murmurs, "Zulik, be a sweet and fetch me some water, hmmm?" As he rises, a look of relief crosses his face to be leaving the uncomfortableness of the caverns, if even for a bit. The brownrider winks, "Thank you dahhhl." As she attempts to flip over onto her side, she tosses her hair over her shoulder, and fans her tanktop up and down, revealing toned and tan belly. This movement also positions her line of sight to the short blonde male who is sitting with the sketchpad. "Dahhhhling," she drawls with a smirk, "If you intend to draw or paint me, I want to take a portion of the sales. Its only fair." Wink.

The sudden noise is enough to startle Ash out of his position. A slight blush taints at his cheeks, "Oh, no, ma'am, wasn't painting you. I'm not a painter, really, was just gonna go over my ideas with the Weyrwoman for the fence, but she's not here at the moment…"

Kanga raises an eyebrow as she twirls one dark curl around her index finger. Fully sitting up, she crosses her legs and turns, her full attentions towards the young man. "Hmmmm? Pity then. I could have used more artwork for my weyr's walls." Fake pout. "Fence, what fence? It should be more the color scheme of the weyr, some of our outdoor structures are woefully clashing, if you ask me." Nosewrinkle. "What was your name again? I think I've totally seen you around lately."

Ashkir runs a hand through his hair absently as he shifts in his position to better talk to the rider. "Well, not so much of a pity, I'm sure you don't want anything done by me hanging on your wall, unless you like stick figures?" There's a quiet chuckle from Ash as he shrugs his shoulders, "I dunno if I wanna use paint, I'm supposed to make it so dragons can itch up against it. If I paint it, it might chip off the paint, and it'd be kinda worthless. Unless I can figure out a way so it doesn't come off so easily?" There's a momentary pause as he considers the rider, "Have you seen me? You might've seen Rocco, he and I look rather similar, I thought he was my reflection at first. Well, anyway, I'm Ashkir, nice to meet you, ma'am."

Kanga peers over at him with slightly uplifted nose, "You'd be surprised. In some hold areas the stick figure movement is making a comeback. I predict it will be all the rage by this time next turn." She contemplates, holding one perfectly manicured index finger to her chin, "Paint fades but if you construct a fence out of finely cured woods, perhaps Lemos stock or something else, it tends to hold a shape /and/ a color much better than the cheap stuff." The water arrives and she holds out her hands to receive the skin. "Zuuuulik. Dahhling," she purrs at the towel boy, "Take a few hours off, don't need you fainting down here." He strides off, vanishing quite quickly as she turns back to Ashkir, "Rocco. Rocco. this name seems soo familiar. Is he a new hairdresser? Or a Healer apprentice? Or /was/ he, I should say, before being searched." She holds out her hand, delicately tilting the wrist down in Ashkir's general direction, "Kanga, well met, and charmed, I'm sure." Headtilt towards the sleeping brown clutchdaddy on the sands, "That one is mine. Ruenalth, to be exact."

"Really? Cause I don't think I can even draw stick figures that well, I had someone help me draw some of the stuff on here and wrote down my ideas." Ashkir frowns as he flips through a couple of pages, "I was thinking of reinforcing it with stone or metal or something of the like, but that'd cost a lot of money." A finger taps at his chin thoughtfully, "He told me he was a beautician, or something of the like. I'm not sure if he was a healer apprentice, too, but I know he gathers herbs?" A hand rubs at the back of his head, "Nice to meet you Kanga," His gaze turns to the brown dragon on the sands, blinking, "The brown is yours, ma'am? I was wondering why someone would want to be in this heat for so long, not that I'm complaining."

Kanga smirks, "Well, with the right connections, money isn't as much a problem as you'd think." Hint hint, nudge nudge. "Where is this fence to go, anyway? I've seen some awfully shoddy fence posts near the corral, for one. And, where are you from, exactly? You seem like a new face around here, I think." She licks her lips and takes some long swigs of the water, adjusting her seat position. "Mmm, well my intel was almost correct, then, sounds like." Hand not clasped, she withdraws it hastily. "Mm, Rue insists that I do some of the sands sitting with him. Also he wants his sparkly pile /just/ right, don't you dahl?" A low rumblesnort confirms her statements. "Heat? Ff. I'm Istan born and raised, just used to it, I guess."

"Pippa wants me to build it for her and to spare no expense, she just wants me to build it so that the dragons can use it for a itching post. I'm guessing she wants me to do the whole fence like that?" He's not exactly sure on that prospect, "Around the corrals, she wants me to replace the old fence for her." A finger jabs in some random direction that's probably not the right direction, "Up north, from High Reaches Hold. I just arrived here not too long ago. I personally like the warmth, it's much more to my liking than the cold we get back home." His eyes flicker at the eggs, "Sparkly? they don't look sparkly to me, even if they are a bit odd."

Kanga ahhhs, "Good. Those corrals have needed an upgrade for like, ever." More water chugging. The mention of High Reaches has her eyes narrowing. "So you're a snowgent, are you? What brings you to the weyr then, pretty far from home hmm?" Nosy nosiness is nosy. She shakes her head, "Nono. He prefers to sleep on sparkly. Has an eye for expensive gems. The more expensive ones we don't keep on public display, of course. But the sands are awfully /plain/ without some adornments, at least that's what /we/ think." She indicates the various glints of colored rocks and metal bits that peek out from under his forelegs as he rests. "Wanted to put a decorative border around the eggmounds as well, but we decided that might be a little too risky, don't want to get /too/ close to the eggs till they harden a bit."

"Well, I'm working on 'em, it'll be a while before they go up. The weyrwoman said she'd send some candidates to come help me out, so far Rocco's been out to help me and a couple of other people. They gave some really useful ideas." He laughs loudly, "What's a snowgent? I guess? If that's what you call people from up north? Well, for the most part, I'm not too fond of the cold and I mostly wanted to get away from my dad. He has this thing set in his head that I'm supposed to be 'the man of the house' since my brother's well…we'll not get into my brother." He shrugs his shoulders indifferently, his attention going to the gems as they are pointed out. "Kinda hard to see, but I think I can see them? So he likes gems and stuff? That's gotta be rather expensive, considering how rare gems are." His nose wrinkles thoughtfully, "How long ago were they laid and how long till they harden? I've never seen eggs before, though they're just the same as any other eggs, I think. Just more colorful and containing dragons."

Kanga nods, "A snowgent or a snowlady is what /I/ call the crazies who live over there. Anybody who /likes/ to be snowed in for months of each year just isn't right. If you ask me. Sounds like your brother is one of /those/" She sniffs, shrugging one shoulder, "You could say that Ru and I have expensive tastes. You could say that with the right connections and sound business skills that those tastes aren't as expensive as you would think." She thinks, "Laid a few sevendays ago, and they take about four to five months to harden. Seems way longer than it actually is, but, whatevs." More water swigging. "So do you like, need to talk to some Smiths about the fence? I have connections."

"My brother isn't really crazy, he's a good guy, dad just gives him a hard time cause he likes guys." Ash shrugs his shoulders as he leans back in his seat and peers up at the ceiling. "Well, when you're getting rare stuff like that, I would guess it helps to have connections so it's not so expensive." Ash looks over towards the rider curiously, "Only a couple of sevendays? I think I was still up north 'bout that time." Ash looks down at the notebook, "Don't think so? The weyrwoman said she'd get the stuff I needed. So I don't think so?"

Kanga nods, "I see." A more emphatic nod, "Yepper, only a couple of sevendays. Ru has rarely left the sands since then, too. Overprotective daddy, arencha?" She coos down at the sleeping bro- actually he's waking up now, raising his head to SQUINT and yawn toward the galleries, great long tongue falling out the right side of his massive jaw. "Mmm, I see. So like, are you Pippa's assistant or something, or are you a free agent?"

Ashkir chuckles quietly in amusement as he watches the rider, "Well, I'm sure that most dragons are rather overprotective, eh? Well, most fathers, anyway." A hand runs through his hair absently as he shifts on his position, "Asisstant? Um, not really sure what I am? I Was just talking to Pippa about why I came here and she had me start on the fence to give me something to do."

A furtive glance does Kanga give in Ashkir's general direction. She does not answer for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. Clank, clink, plink. Clank, clank, hiss comes the familiar entrance of Ruenalth into her mind as he rouses in both thought and body. « Am I particularly sexy today or is it just me? » He preens both silently and in a visual sense, puffing out his chest and arching his neck to its fullest height. » I can't tell, the heat is hazing up my vision. « comes the reply, quickly and hastily. » Talk later? I'm sort of in the middle of something.« Ruenalth is not pleased at the response as he rises up on all legs and lumbers over to the galleries, deftly avoiding all eggs. Shielding his head with his caped wings, he chuffs air towards Kanga and Ashkir before ducking his nose in, so all you can see is his eyeridges. STAAAAAARING at everyone. Kanga does a half facepalm.

There's a blink, blink when the rider goes all silent on him. And then of course the dragon is rising and staring at him. He coughs into his hand, "Well, perhaps I'll stop in later, eh? Maybe by then Pippa will be around to shoot off some ideas to her." He pushes himself to his feet and grabs at his notebook, "Can't get much done if I'm in here anyway."

Kanga frowns, "Ru, stop scaring the new people. For Faaaranth's sake!" She stands up with hands on her hips as the brown retreats in a huff, sitting his butt back down on the sands with a thump. "Ashkir. Ashhhhhkirrrrrr……." comes Kanga's wheedling voice with a pout and no lack of fluttery eyelashes. She reaches out to gently grab and tug at his forearm. "This will never do. You leaving in a huff. I could totally use an extra assistant. One who can you know, help me stay hydrated, give advice on how to fix fences and other wooden structures. I have this spot near my usual tanning area near the pools with a fence that could totally use your skills. What do you say?" A pause, "Don't mind Rue, he was testing you for freshness or something. " Or likely, something with more of a premeditatedness to it.

"I wasn't scared, just figured I was getting in the way or…you know. I'm not good with dragons, we don't 'em much up north. Don't mind 'em too much, just hard to know what they're thinking." And then his arm is getting tugged and he allows himself to be dragged off. "Um, well, what sorta thing do you need done? I don't mind helping out, really." He looks down at himself, blinking, "Freshness? I'm not sure what he'd consider fresh, but I got cleaned off not too long ago? I don't think I'm dirty?"

Kanga smirks, "I thought you'd be up to the task. So like…" long, ascertaining look from top to bottom. "First, we need to get you a new shirt. Something more fashionable, and something more..Istan. When in Ista, right?" She snickers. "So if you would just come with me, we can go to the stores, I will brief you on your duties when we get there. Also, need to refill my water skin." A shake reveals that it is pretty empty. She crooks her finger with the 'come with me' gesture and heads down the stairs.

Ashkir
Feathery light blond hair falls from the top of this young man's head and falls in uneven lengths about his head. His bangs are usually pushed off to the side of his head and hooked behind his ears, but they do have a tendancy to fall in front of his eyes every so often. Blonde eyebrows arch over his light blue eyes that seem to twinkle with unseeen mischief. The young man has a light tan to his skin, suggesting that he spends a lot of time outdoors, he seems to look a lot younger than he really is, suggesting that he never quite grew out of that awkward teenage faze. He also is rather short for his age and looks to be rather lacking in the muscular department. One's attention is usually drawn to his hands which are usually covered in various paints, and when they aren't covered by paints, they are covered by thin silver-colored scars > from cutting himself.
Ashkir can usually be seen wearing a light brown leather shirt that looks like it has seen a couple of turns of use. The leather has long faded and and multiple patches can be seen sewn in. His pants aren't in any better condition, what used to be a black color looks more like gray colored with dust of the road.
He is a young adult of about 20. He is awake and looks alert.

Oh boy, what has Ashkir gotten himself into? That seems to be the general look on his face as he listens to Kanga. He shifts on his feet, "New shirt?" He looks down at his own shirt, "What's wrong with this one? It's a work shirt, it's designed to get dirty." A hand brushes concienciously against the shirt, "Um, alright. Where would I go get the water?" Yup, he'll follow, if even reluctantly.
Kanga nods, "We can get you a more fashionable shirt. I insist on guiding my assistants, at least a little in the finer arts of self presentation." Translation: yer shirt does not please her so try again! "Mm, a cistern near the Living Caverns, c'mon!" Sandals clop clop as she stands at the bottom of the stairs and calls up to him.

Ashkir walks in from the Southeastern Bowl.
You go to the Northeastern Caverns.
You go to the Stores.

Travel spam deleted!

Stores
Much like the rest of the Weyr, the igneous walls are deeply black as they curve in a natural arch above one's head. The gold specks of volcanic glass, so prominent in the rest of the Weyr, are flecked so lightly here they barely have cause to glitter in the torch light. The entire bubble like room is dominated by various stored goods. Crate upon crate of wines, foodstuffs, cloth, and much more line the walls. Bagged items such as grain and vegetables are piled well above the average man's height, and stacked three deep. All stored items are kept to supply the Weyr with much needed goods. The scuffed floors are worn and ragged from turns of heavy items scraping great gouges and leaving shallow trenches.
To the east, you see one person.
You see Flamer Charging Unit here.
Obvious exits:
Northeastern Caverns Kitchen Vintners' Area Winding Tunnel

Ashkir walks in from the Northeastern Caverns.

Ashkir peers down at his shirt, as if trying to decide what about it is so unfashionable. He really is not that great in that department. "Um, alright, but I did get this from the stores," he mumbles on the way, making sure to stay close to the other rider. He still often gets lost down in the lower caverns. "Um, if we're going to the living caverns, isn't this the wrong place?" A hand will go into his pocket to produce a crudely drawn map which he quickly consults, "I think we're in the stores?"

Kanga whisks herself to the stores, making sure that Ashkir is following her. Shickt fffst goes the sound of her rapidly moving things around on hangers and rustling through boxes until she unearths a pale orange, sleeveless tank top. "This." she says firmly, holding it up to Ashkir. "I think this will not only bring out your coloring, but help you get a tan on those arms. Tan is in." Holding it up to his chest, she considers, "I think it'll fit. Try it on, please?"

Ashkir arches a brow as she lifts up the pale orange shirt. He reaches for it and turns it in his hands as if trying to figure out how it compares to the current shirt he's wearing. "Um, alright, I guess I could try it on?" Ash quickly pulls his own shirt off and tosses it to the side to tug on the new shirt. "Well, is this okay?"

Kanga looks approvingly over at him. "Mmmm, and with a bit of combing, your hair could be. Yes." She nods, framing him with two sets of thumb and forefingers, one up, one down. "One more thing, dahhling. This shirt needs just one more acccessory." She reaches out to grab his hand and open up his palm, dangling a strange knotted thing above it. "Palm open, please!"

Ashkir's eyes flicker up to his hair and he frowns, "My hair too?" A hand runs through his hair as if that might settle the mop of blonde. "Might be my fault too, habit." Ashkir shifts from foot to foot as she looks him up and down. He arches a brow as she pulls out the knotted thing, opening his hand and peering at the rider.

Kanga drops a pure white, silky knot into Ashkir's hand, curling his fingers around it. "So like, the best way to help you to help /me/, Rue and I have decided is for you to be a candidate. He likes your smell, he thinks you have good taste too. With a little spiffying up, that is. That means you are not only my assistant but a candidate for Ru and Jeyth's clutch. So," expectant look, "What do you say?" Eyebrow waggle as she leans seductively against the doorframe.

Peer. Ashkir looks up from the rider and then the knot and then back again, blinking in confusion. "A candidate?" He echos out of cofusion, "The weyrwoman mentioned something along the same lines the other day…" He rubs at the back of his head, "I thought she was joking, honestly. I guess? It really makes no difference to me, I'm going to be here anyway, and maybe I'll figure out something else to do about here."

Kanga purrs, "Pippa and I have good taste in men, this has been established." Including another guy in the past,but let's not go there right now. "Excellent. So, your job is to make Ista look /good/ by being a model candidate. And helping keep me hydrated by assisting Zulik in filling up the wine and water skins, and bringing the skin lotion. And when we have time, we'll look at my tanning area at the pools. But for now, let's get you into the Barracks." Another crook of her finger, guess Ashkir has one more stop on his whirlwind weyr tour today, hmm?

Travel spam…

Candidates' Barracks
Long and low, this large room angles back into the mountain in a near-perfect rectangle, devoid of windows and hearth. A functional room — the black volcanic rock has been painted with a cheerful mural, with the other walls painted in green and orange thoughtfully, before resuming the stark simplicity in the seemingly endless rows of cots that scatter back into the shadows. A small clothespress sits at the end of each puce-covered bed — yes, puce. Every cot sports a rather gaudy and obnoxiously purple cotton coverlet, leftovers from PranksPast. Boys to the right, girls to the left. Enjoy.
Hanging out on a long wooden shelf on the wall are seven firelizards.
You see CANDIDATE INFORMATION BOARD, Grafitti Wall, Skylar's Cot, Breannah's Cot, Mayalei's Cot, Riyn's Cot, Rocco's Cot, Lucian's Cot, Perry's Cot, and A Mural here.
You notice Lucian, Rocco, and Perry asleep here.
Obvious exits:
Caverns

Ashkir walks in from the South Caverns.

Kanga sends a drudge running for a cot. After a few minutes the drudge returns dragging a big heavy cot for Ashkir.

Kanga nods, "Loooovely. SO like, make yourself at home. No sex, booze, respect the riders and be courteous…." She counts things on her fingers, ticking them off. "You got a chore list, too. On the wall, see? You can ask any questions you need of me or the others. Any so far?"

Ashkir looks about the barracks with a forbiding feeling of doooom. "Interesting color choices," Is all that is commented on. "Um, nope, I'm all set, I think? So just do the stuff I usually do, I can do that."

Kanga fingerwaggles, "So like, have fun! I am going to go take a nap, or something. I'll send a firelizard with further instructions." A hair flip is all that can be seen of her then, as she slinks out the door.

Yukie's Search

During a routine trip from HRW back to IW, Trek and Kanyith bring home a candidate.

MOO Time: 2012-06-20 10:57:09
And on Pern …
The time is 06:57.
It is midmorning of the twenty-eighth day of autumn.
It is the twenty-fifth Turn of the Tenth Interval.
It is an autumn midmorning. A cold, light drizzle mists across your face, you suspect the sun's still climbing up in the eastern sky, hidden by the dark clouds.

Quiet Corners
Thick woolen tapestries dull the noise from the rest of the caverns, turning this well-lit little room into a welcome escape. The stairs up place it against the bowl wall somewhere above the living caverns, carpeted against the winters chill or left as cool stone floor in summer. Some high and narrow windows can be opened to the world outside, or secured with their heavy metal-sided shutters and blue-threaded curtains.
Glowlight gleams, brightening the well-cushioned stone couches and lighting the weyr residents half-finished projects: knitting undone, sewing only started, leathers being worked soft, and even a hide of sketches or half-finished Thread-chart spread out across one of the tables.

Yukie
Oh, for the intensity that lies just beneath the tranquil surface of youthful visage; for the auld soul calmly entrapped within the regard of deep-blue eyes, touched as a bluegrass meadow at the heady cusp of dusk. Too-big, these eyes, large and round and set well within a narrow, angular face, framed with hair of sunkissed moonlight, neither wholly of one or the other. Average of build and slight in height, Yukie would never be considered a classic beauty in her coltish stage of development, the awkward turns in full force— but the intensity lies striking moreso for her obvious lack of experience, inviting those with sense enough to seek further beyond the book's cover to unveil a striking firmament upon which yet the future will build.
It's clear that this girl cares little for clothing, for while her attire is generally clean, well taken care of, it is never at the height of fashion. Dresses, pants, shirts — all of these things are generally seen dependent upon the weather. Yukie wears Yukie's Listening Tube around her neck. Two firelizards are perched on her shoulders.
She is a teenager of about 17. She is awake, but seems rather distracted.

Trek
At first glance, Trek might seem a bit on the small side, fragile and petite. Her long-lashed, hazel eyes are a bit heavily lidded, often making them appear somewhat demure, while her smile can carry anything from simper to smolder. Short wavy hair varies from sun-kissed blonde to dark auburn, the loose curls just long enough to tie back, but not long enough to brush her shoulders. Closer inspection would reveal more than her light tan, though few get a chance to see beyond that. Petite she may be, but with muscles toned as a dancer's, she's anything but frail.
What once may have been a decent pair of riding leathers is now a hodgepodge of varied colors. It started out as a dark, natural brown, now marred by a splash of deep burgundy down one side and made all the worse by trails of what now looks like burnt orange. Did someone try to tie-dye these? In any case, what could almost have turned out to be pretty snazzy appears instead like the rider fell into a box of wet paint brushes, then probably spilled wine all over herself.
Trek's orange and black knot marks her as a wingrider of Ista Weyr, while a thin ribbon of navy blue winds its way throughout. A thin, braided strand of purple and white indicates her trainee status as a dragonhealer.
She is a young adult of about 24. She is awake and looks alert.

A brisk autumn midmorning finds Yukie surrounded by aged tomes, warmly ensconced in the quiet confines of the Quiet Corners. Her long, pale hair is bound away from her face in a single braid, and the intensity of deep blue-green eyes is focused entirely on tomes older than she is. In one hand, a stylus is held at the ready, obviously bent on taking notes. A little plate is set to the side, with a few crumbs as a last relic to a long-forgotten breakfast. A shiny new knot is pinned to her shoulder, however, and only enhances the deep pride that lurks beneath an ingrained, tranquil demeanor.

While Trek's approach is from the caverns' stairs, her riding jacket is damp, and her hair, curlier than normal, contains tiny droplets of the misty drizzle falling outside. She's carrying a large ceramic mug, its contents steaming away in the morning's chill, and a small plate with two simple slices of toast, covered in some sort of berry preserves. The rider eases into one of the chairs and carefully sets down klah and breakfast before giving Yukie a closer look. "Mornin'. New knot?"

A quiet joy brims beneath the surface of Yukie's pale face, giving her almost a glow so that when Trek enters and asks her question the gentle smile that curves the girl's lips is almost brilliant. "Yes. I've just recently walked the tables and earned my senior apprenticeship." The mist that clings to the dragonhealer has Yukie giving a quick glance out of the little window before tugging one of the big tomes closer to her, to make a little more room for Trek. "Good morning," a touch sheepish is she, having realized that she didn't return the pleasantries, "How's Gorlath holding up? He's got to be about ready to leave the ground weyrs isn't he?" Inquiry comes with a little more shuffling to compress her spread-out-area to something more manageable.

Trek just about mirrors Yukie's smile when the Healer's questions come her way. "Released this morning. Still some therapy for the muscles and stuff, but he can fly as long as they don't do something stupid." She wraps her fingers around her mug, its size perhaps more for warmth than for drinking. "That reminds me of something I meant to mention to one of you, though," Trek continues after a brief sip, her eyes darting to Yukie's knot again, indicating the particulars of the "you". "There's this poultice we use for swelling and stuff, but it's been making Y'han sneeze like crazy, so he wasn't putting it on Gorlath like he was supposed to. So one of these days, could we sit down and maybe go through the ingredients and stuff to see if we could substitute things? Y'han isn't the first one I've seen react like that."

The healer in Yukie easily takes hold, the girl's smile easing if only because of the intensity of her interest in what (she perceives) as a new problem. "Absolutely. I'll look up the ingredients and see what might be causing it. If it's as simple as taking away the herbs that give such things a gentle smell, that should be easy to fix. Some of these poultices smell and taste wretched if nothing is added. But I'd think a bad smell would be preferable to sneezing!" A gentle, quiet laugh escapes the girl, though idle fingers touch upon the pages of one of the large tomes — almost larger than the slight healer — and says a little more thoughtfully. "If it's a core ingredient, we might be able to come up with a different poultice, but it's possible messing with a core ingredient would make it less effective. Hmmm." Lest she get too caught up with the tricky problem, the girl smiles and adds, "Herbalry is going to be my specialty." Quiet pride.

Trek is quick to smile as she picks up her plate of toast. "I'd figured, going by the books," the rider replies, winking. She crunches into a bite of toast, gaze losing focus for a moment. When the focus returns, it's with a small frown. "Sometimes I think… we just do stuff 'cause it's been done like that for ages. Tradition lets us stop thinking about new possibilities. Or something." She shrugs and eats more toast.

A flush touches upon Yukie's pale cheeks, but with it comes another gentle smile. "I am rather obvious, aren't I?" This touch of self-depreciation comes with a soft, good-natured chuckle. Yet, her expression turns to a touch serious, for the topic at hand is one that's felt strongly on. "Indeed. There are some apprentices that scorn the ways of my grandmama for the only reason that my grandmama's knowledge was passed down to her from her mother. Her knowledge of herbs is excellent, but not Healer-trained, yet, the suspicion of that is enough that folks have let a problem become much worse than it could have been by being stubborn and not listening to her. Knowing the right way for things is all well and good, but believing that there's only *one* right way has the potential to close the doors on many good works." The intensity that burns in Yukie's soul-deep dark eyes is almost feverish, the tranquility of her inner self not left untouched by the idea of people's ignorance.

At first, Trek can only smile around the last bite of toast. It's a fairly delighted smile, however, and accompanied by a quick nod before she washes it all down with klah. "Exactly. Exactly! It's always so nice to discover there are still people who /think/ rather than just learn." She brushes her hands off on the shins of her trousers, then takes a much deeper drink of klah before leaning back in the chair with the mug resting on one thigh. "Maybe it's Craft culture. Weyrs have their… eccentricity? Holds have their traditions. Crafts have their egos."

"I think it sparks deeper within human nature," Yukie muses, "In that we *want* to find the things that never change, because change causes fear. A fear of being wrong, a fear of being invalidated, or just a fear of not being as well off as we think we are. What everyone tends to forget is that learning and exploring new ideas is good for everyone." The healer allows a little grin to slip across her features, lighting up her dark blue-green eyes. "My grandmama gave me a good foundation for exploring outside the boundaries of what is 'to be expected'. She encouraged me to think and even make mistakes — harmless ones, I assure you, as I was a young child — to show that it is, in fact, okay to make mistakes and is to be expected when coming into discoveries."

"Anyone who manages to never make a mistake in their life never really lived," Trek drawls in agreement before lifting her mug Yukie-wards and taking another big gulp, nearly draining the container. "And there are so many exciting mistakes just waiting out there to be made." The statement has an odd tone to it, but Trek only drinks that last bit of klah and sets the mug on the empty plate. "Anyway… speaking of herbs, Kanyith and I are due to take some of the mountain varieties back to Ista and see if any of Ista's garden stock is ready." She runs fingers through still-damp hair before she gets to her feet and starts to button her riding jacket before giving Yukie a lopsided grin. "Have you seen Ista's gardens? They've really come a long way in the last couple Turns."

"I haven't," Yukie answers, watching as Trek stands, "I admit that I've not been to Ista for longer than it took to go through the healer hall and then get posted to High Reaches, which wasn't very long at all." The girl smiles, genuine and friendly, "But I've heard it's a paradise. When I was at the Healer Hall, I admit that I was mostly focused on getting accepted." She closes one of the tomes and stacks it upon another, "They have gardens? I've heard that there are some potent tropical herbs…" Wistful? Maybe.
Trek nods once as she buttons the last button and tugs at the bottom of her riding jacket. "That they do. If it's all right with Talim, Ky and I can always take one more. We'll be in the bowl loading crates and bags and stuff for a while, so… shall I just leave it up to you and the weyrhealer?"

Yukie's eyes brighten. "I would love to go for a visit." She has a special bag and all, for (sanctioned) herb picking! "Let me just put these away and I'll speak with Talim and see you in the bowl?" Gathering up the remainder of her books and hide-bound notes, the slight healer struggles a bit with the load, but she's stronger than appearances give and steadies enough to take the first step towards the door leading out. "Thank you, Trek." She ducks her head with a smile and hurries out, calling back, "I shall see you in a few!" Into the misty rain she goes.

[Travel, travel, travel…]

Central Bowl
Looking toward the sky from the center of Ista Weyr's bowl, you view the five towering pinnacles of the Weyr rim that appear to reach into the clouds. The bowl floor slopes gently upward to the southeast, where various tunnels lead to the hatching grounds, ground weyrs, and living caverns. Across the bowl to the northeast are the weyrling barracks and training grounds. The Weyr's artificial waterfall sheets down along the northern wall of the Bowl, its pool concealed at the base of the bowl by a cloud of mist. West, the entire wall of the bowl has been blown out by some long-distant eruption, offering a breathtaking view of the ocean.
It is an autumn noon.

Kanyith
Aerodynamic and sleek, he is a dragon built for speed, a perfect blend of function and form. Star-field dapples of gunmetal grey accent the planes and angles of his face, while navy hide is lacquered smooth over lean shoulders and broad wings, down narrow, trim hips and the untruncated punctuation-point of his tail. A bright flare of yellow streaks a comet-tail's path down the sharp row of 'ridges, narrow between his brows and over head and neck; it broadens to echo the inverted V of his wings, and is echoed itself in falling-star streaks that blaze at the edges of his wingsails and the point of his tail.
Kanyith is 5 Turns, 1 month, and 18 days old.
He is 54 feet (18m) long, with a wingspan of 90 feet (30m).
Kanyith seems to be listening.

The herb-laden trip from High Reaches to Ista is a quiet one. Wind makes conversation difficult, and ::Between:: is even worse. Once they pop back into Ista's noonday sunlight, Kanyith begins a slow descent, spiraling down toward the Weyr's central bowl. Thermals shift, wind dies down, and just as they near the caldera, Trek turns back toward Yukie and starts to say something. The wind sends the end of her scarf into her mouth, however, so it's not until they're finally on the ground and the rider is free of scarf mouth that she can finish what she was going to say. "Need to ask you something," pause to pick a yarn fiber out of her mouth, "before we go visit the gardens." Not waiting for a response, however, she's already unclipping both her safety strap and Yukie's before the rider hops to the ground, waving when one of the local healers and an apprentice arrive right on time to start taking new inventory.

A dragon's ride is still quite a new experience for Yukie, though not as new as it once was. Still the girl's not an experienced traveler to say the least, though she handles it with the same ingrained tranquility and grace as everything else she does. A giggle escapes, tinkling soft, once they land when Trek fights with scarf mouth. "Okay," the healer says easily, pushing her deflated (empty) satchel out of the way before dismounting. Eagerness glitters in her eyes as she surreptitiously looks around the weyr's bowl before tipping back to Trek.

Trek begins unhooking crates and bags and handing them to the Healer, who in turn hands them to the apprentice. Kanyith, meanwhile, has his neck craned slightly to look directly at both Trek and Yukie. "So," the rider begins after handing off a crate, "Ky here has this idea," with a chin nod to the blue before she starts unbuckling the next bundle, "that you should really try out candidacy. See if there's a dragonet out there for your someday." Crate is handed off, so she begins untying a bulging satchel. "And if Talim won't skin me for it later, would you be willing," bag is tossed to the Healer, easy as it's just full of leaves of some sort, "to stand for Jeyth and Ruenalth's here at Ista?" She pauses to dust off her hands and turn to Yukie, which is just as well, as the others are catching up with inventory. "Just think, all that time to get a whole new look at a different set of herbs… field trips all over Pern…" Kanyith may have just moved his head a little bit closer, waiting.

Yukie does as any apprentice would do, takes the work graciously that the healer gives her. Very carefully does she handle the supplies — healer to her core, it's almost reverently — while turning surprised eyes to Trek, catching that bag of herbs. "I hadn't thought of that," she answers truthfully. "It is possible, I suppose, too that if I stand and Impress, that I could continue my studies." She smiles, tentatively at first, until it blossoms into a smile of anticipation. "I could spend a lot of time studying the herbs here, too. And perhaps study under the Master here in Ista and get a different perspective." She bobs her head up and down, absently holding onto that bag, "I think yes. I will Stand for your clutch." She pauses, a twinkle blooming in the seriousness that always lurks beneath the surface of calm, dark eyes, "If I may have unrestricted access to your garden!" Barring, of course, what an apprentice is restricted from.

Trek laughs softly as she climbs up on Kanyith's leg to grab the last box o' herbs, which she sets at the Healer's feet. "Well! Excellent. And yeah, T'ab has been on quite a kick about riders continuing craft studies and the like." Now that her transport duty is done, she tugs her gloves off her hands and stuffs them into her jacket, which is then attached to Kanyith's riding straps. When Yukie accepts the offer, the blue relaxes into an almost languid pose. His work here is done. "May as well get you set up, then! I think I can handle Talim," she adds with a teasing little wink.

Yukie once again lets out a little chuckle at Trek's final words, but finally relinquishes the bag to the healer before hooking a thumb beneath the strap of her satchel slung across her chest. "Thank you," to both blue and bluerider, "For this opportunity." And with that? She's ready for Trek to lead her away!

[Travel, travel, travel…]

Candidates' Barracks
Long and low, this large room angles back into the mountain in a near-perfect rectangle, devoid of windows and hearth. A functional room — the black volcanic rock has been painted with a cheerful mural, with the other walls painted in green and orange thoughtfully, before resuming the stark simplicity in the seemingly endless rows of cots that scatter back into the shadows. A small clothespress sits at the end of each puce-covered bed — yes, puce. Every cot sports a rather gaudy and obnoxiously purple cotton coverlet, leftovers from PranksPast. Boys to the right, girls to the left. Enjoy.

The devil is in the details, but luckily the details at this end of things are few. A few words here, some instructions there, then Trek is handing over a brand new and very white knot, even if it's a little plain. "So… pick a cot. The rules and schedule are posted. We can run back up to 'Reaches for your things. But I can show you where the garden is first, if you'd like, so you'll know the way."

That white knot is taken seriously in hand by Yukie, slender fingers lightly tightening around it, while her other hand slowly unhooks her healer's knot — not without some hesitation. If only for being so attached to it. Still, the Candidate's knot is donned and she turns to Trek, "That would be lovely. I have few things, so it won't be a hassle." A gentle smile spreads across her lips, eyes twinkling, "And I would love to see the garden first," is added in her quiet voice. After all, she has an empty satchel just waiting to get some herbal samples! "Again, thank you."

This time Trek's smile in return is full and warm. It hasn't been all that long ago since she was in Yukie's place, after all. "It's no hassle anyway. Let's go while there's still lots of daylight, though. It's when the gardens are at their best." That is followed by a wink before Trek heads back into the cavern to show Yukie all the pretty plants.

Bugging Candidates

Rocco and Mae have a first encounter with the bugs.

6/22/2012
09:46 AM
Logfile from Mae.

Candidates' Barracks
Long and low, this large room angles back into the mountain in a near-perfect rectangle, devoid of windows and hearth. A functional room — the black volcanic rock has been painted with a cheerful mural, with the other walls painted in green and orange thoughtfully, before resuming the stark simplicity in the seemingly endless rows of cots that scatter back into the shadows. A small clothespress sits at the end of each puce-covered bed — yes, puce. Every cot sports a rather gaudy and obnoxiously purple cotton coverlet, leftovers from PranksPast. Boys to the right, girls to the left. Enjoy.
Hanging out on a long wooden shelf on the wall are seven firelizards.
You see CANDIDATE INFORMATION BOARD, Grafitti Wall, Skylar's Cot, Mayalei's Cot, Riyn's Cot, Rocco's Cot, Lucian's Cot, Perry's Cot, Ashkir's Cot, Yukie's Cot, Mae's Cot, and A Mural here.
You notice Perry, Yukie, Ashkir, and Lucian asleep here.
Obvious exits:
Caverns

Rocco
Left long enough to brush his shoulders, Rocco's soft, pale ash blonde hair is groomed to perfection - but that doesn't stop it from frequently falling in the way of his big, light blue eyes. The finely-chiselled features of his face leave him looking slightly angular, though the formerly refined slope of his narrow nose has been marred by a small bump that pays tribute to a break or two in the past. Along the curve of his narrow jaw, down to his slender chin, Rocco has a neatly-trimmed, fluffy blonde rendition of a beard; nothing more than a thin strip that's clearly tended on a daily basis. The plump curve of his lips, so often found pouted, is coloured a rosebud pink, the perfect complement to his clear complexion - which, of late, has been kissed by Rukbat to a light golden (and often sunburnt) shade, making the freckles on his cheeks stand out a little more. In terms of his figure, Rocco is slender, willowy, standing a very leggy 5'7. He may be a delicate slip of a man by appearances, but his fine-honed limbs and dainty mannerisms are deceptive of the musculature they truly home, cultured by his craft.
Dressed for Ista's warmth, Rocco wears a light, short-sleeved shirt made from white cotton, the first few buttons left loose while the bottom is tucked neatly into his knee-length, khaki-hued shorts. On his feet he wears a sturdy pair of well-worn - yet well cared-for - ankle boots, the brown leather slightly faded with age, white socks showing neatly folded at the top. His shoulder-length blonde hair is tied back with a thin black ribbon, held in a low ponytail at his nape, and the light hues of his outfit complements his sun-kissed (and more often than not sunburnt) skin. Rocco wears a woven bracelet around his wrist.
White! Rocco's knot is the snowy white braided loop of a Candidate.
He is a young adult of about 21. He is awake and looks alert.

Mae
Freckled. The whims of the sun has sprinkled this girl's face with freckles infinite, their touch generous upon her cheeks and nose. The rest of her pixie figure is cast in an island-born tan, golden with a life much spent outside. Hair that is supposed to be a frizzy chestnut has been further sunbleached, leaving it more a frizzy and fly-away teak. The mass often falls to just shy of her shoulders, but is more often than not set high in pigtails. Her eyes are green, her nose is strong, and there is quite an unfortunate point to her chin. Rather small for her age, activity has left her form slight, yet svelte, and almost boyish still -the beginnings of teenaged awkwardness already evidenced in large feet.
Today is a day for orange, it seems. Cut-off shorts of a sturdy canvas are folded to just below mid-thigh, slightly loose, pale, and very brown. A light-woven shirt of a rich tangerine is sleeveless and belted at the waist with was once a rather nice maroon belt, but seems to have gone through a little bit of recent wear. Often enough, a pair of leather thong sandals are upon her feet, but if needed, it is sturdy canvas shoes for adventure.
She is a teenager of about 14. She is awake and looks alert.

It smells like teen spirit. And feet and a lot of bodies put together in a room and the 'clawmeat and citrus sandwich that someone smuggled in last night and, of course, expectation. Smack in the center of the cavern is Mae, gangly, awkward, and itching a spot on her nose. No, the spots on her face aren't some kind of disease or rash, just simple freckles. "Who stole my shoe?"

Early to rise, early to exercise and all that jazz, Rocco's slipped back into the routine of being a candidate easily enough. He's freshly bathed and on his way back to his cot when he passes Mae asking her question, and he pauses, rubbing his towel across his wet ashy blonde hair. It's loose, and brushing damply against his shoulders. "Your /shoe/, Mae? Why would anyone just steal /one/, darling?"

Mae is not shy in her searching, or maybe in her pawing through the belongings of nearby candidates, whether they are still snoring away in their cots, missing in action, or looking her way as if she were suddenly being beamed up by aliens. "Because it is a great shoe. Because it was mine. Because you all are nothing but a bunch of nicking 'lizards. Because I heard someone was planning on some kind of prank or because-" *SMACK* "they work really well in squashing bugs." As was just evidenced as the girl wields her other shoe, aka the found one, as a bludgeon to smash some poor (now obliterated) bug on the floor.

Rocco gives Mae a /look/. A confused, what the shards are you on about look, that has his brow furrowed over his light blue eyes. "I'm sure it's a /wonderful/ shoe, but why on Pern would anyone take just /one/ of them, when it probably won't even fit them? And, just so you know, I've not stolen anything since I was a brat, thank you very much." He wrinkles his nose, continuing a few cots down to where his own things are stored. "Perhaps it was Yukie. She seems the type to steal one shoe!"

The ire of may gets focused upon Yukie. Well, it would be if she could see that candidate somewhere abouts in the barracks. Alas, her eye does not fall upon the 'offending' candidate, so it'll just end up right on back on Rocco. She can /look/ too! It doesn't last long because she must scrape her shoe on the ground to rid it of bug guts. "They'll just search anyone around here, won't they? Even thieves. Wouldn't it just figure." Despite her speech, there isn't a whole lot of passion behind the words, more just complaining to complain. Her searches continue to the cot to her immediate left, pushing through the blanket there. "Anyone around here got one foot?" It is a valid question.

"That 'anyone' would include yourself, you know." Rocco sits on the edge of his cot, ruffling his towel over his hair to dry it off. He's surprisingly calm in his post-run, post-bath cool down - and Mae might even notice that he smells fruity. Like mango! "I've not /noticed/ anyone with just one foot, sweet," he says appeasingly, before ditching his towel and meandering over to the girl's side. "What's it look like? Are you /sure/ you didn't just kick it under your cot?"

Mae's eyes narrow as she goes about glaring at feet and, yes, counting them to make sure everyone has two. Pushing her sunbleached hair from her face, the girl drops to her knees to peer under that other cot instead of her own. "It looks like this." One gangly arm comes up, brown as a nut, to brandish her shoe -which is actually a thong sandal with a very thin sole, a strong imprint of her foot on the top, and a leather thong dark with wear and sweat. "I didn't kick it nowhere." *SMACK* That very same shoe is brought down to the floor again to destroy yet another crawling bug. Her nose twitches at the sweet smell as Roccoe approaches, "Whoever brought in the fruit brought in all the bugs."

Rocco's eyes narrow as he regards the shoe, his expression displaying exactly how little he thinks of the worn-in thing. "Darling, I'm quite /positive/ no-one would even want to /touch/ something like that, let alone /steal/ it. Why not just wear something else?" He doesn't get the fruit and bugs bit - this is how he normally smells, after all! He does, however, hold up one finger to Mae to get her to pause, while he gets awkwardly down onto all fours, being careful of his splinted, broken fingers and the still-sore but healing muscle in his thigh. Once down there, he peers into the darkness of both Mae's cot and the one beside her, before sitting up and frowning. "Not in your chest or anything, then?"

Mae comes up on her knobby knees, looking over at Rocco, "Nothing wrong with touching it," she counters, long fingers splaying over the sole of the sandal. "No, not in my chest. I'd just go barefoot but shells knows what these weyrfolk do with their floors." A sigh later and the girl looks along to the field of other cots in the near distance, "You haven't had anything taken from you in here, have you?"

Getting back to his feet is even more awkward than getting down to his knees was, and Rocco winces as he leans heavily on a cot with his uninjured hand. He's up finally though, and padding back to his own cot with his slippers shushing softly as his limp momentarily returns. "No, I don't /think/ I have… but I'm not sure. I still don't understand it, though. Why would someone take /one/ shoe? Just one? It's /bizarre/, darling, /honestly/." He shakes his head in bewilderment. "You're /positive/ you packed two when you came?" He combs his fingers through his wet hair, smoothing it back from his face before tying it with the usual length of dark ribbon.

"I was wearing 'em both when I showed up here. What do you think I am? Some kind of unmannered fisher folk from the east side? I'm north shore Istan." Because this is something that clearly matters among the island fishers and Mae as well. Instead of using her shoe, it is a finger that flicks yet another bug, this one back along it's track to have to repeat the voyage. "These here are the only shoes I've got. They stay on my feet when I'm not sleeping. What kind of place would this be if you've got to sleep with your shoes on to make sure they don't get nicked."

"Huh." Rocco's final primping and preening comes from within a small jar - he unscrews the lid, dips his fingers in and brings them out covered in a pale cream, which he then starts smoothing over his face, massaging it into his sun-blushed skin. "Surely they can't be practical for doing all of your chores though, Mae? Wouldn't you do to have your toes covered up at least /some/ of the time, when you're, say, mucking out? Runner shit between the toes /can't/ be a good feeling." More of the cream is applied to his arms, from where his vest top leaves him bare from shoulders to wrist. He then finishes up doing the same with his legs.

Mae pauses in her perusal of other candidate's things. The girl swings her head around, mess of hair fanning about her face. "Why the shells do they need runners about these parts? What the shards else are the dragons supposed to be for? And they're right on the coast. I /know/ they've got boats and skiffs around here. Doesn't seem very smart to be having runners. Nothing but fancy folk have the runners." That poor bug? It makes up the ground it lost, only to be flicked again by her finger.

Rocco gets up, walks around to Mae's cot, grabs the one lonely sandal she's got left and smashes it down on the poor bug that's been flicked back and forth. He gives her a 'and that's the end of /that/' sort of look, wipes the squished bug off on the floor, then presents the sandal back to her with a flourish. "You," he says with a purposefully maintained evenness to his tone, "make me wonder why you even said /yes/ when you were asked here."

Mae momentarily looks after that splat on the ground before looking back to Rocco to retrieve her bug-squashing sandal. After it is given to her, and after his statement, Rocco gets the broadest grin he'll ever see from the girl. "Because I want a dragon." Duuuuuuuuh. At least, that is how it sounds as it spills from her lips. "I mean, don't you want one? I know I want one. It'd be absolutely famous to impress one. Then I could fly wherever I wanted and I could have this great big ol' beastie to squash my older brothers. I'd have a place of my own -well, with the dragon- and then nobody would be stealing my shoes." Meanwhile, another contender arrives for bugmageddon, crawling across the floor through same gauntlet of it's squashed brethren.

"If you /really/ want a dragon, I'd stop bitching about things in the Weyr, if I were you. If you /get/ a dragon you're going to be /living/ here, so why not learn to like it?" Rocco sits on the cot beside Mae's, flicking his gaze over the younger girl. "No-one's stolen your sandal, it'll just have been… misplaced. Maybe a firelizard took a liking to it. Maybe a /spiderclaw/ or something walked on in here and filched it, but I /very/ much doubt there'll have been someone purposely /stealing/ your sandal. Anyway. Think of it as the /perfect/ opportunity to find yourself something new from the stores! What's better than new /shoes/?"

"Oi, what bug crawled up your butt," Mae counters, giving him a rather wry look. Possibly it could be one of those that keep scuttling across the floor, 'cause look, there goes another one. But just as quickly, the girl is grinning faintly, "Why would I want some new shoes when the ones I had fit perfectly to my feet? It is a waste is what it is. You all may be just fine with nipping into stores to get something new but some of us worked hard for our leather." Contrary girl is contrary.

"What's with all the /bugs/?" Not caring that it's not his cot, Rocco lifts his feet up onto it when another one comes scuttling by. "You /are/ working for your leather, Mae. You're a /candidate/. No-one works harder than we do, /and/ we get all the damned drudge work, too." Not a point he's overly pleased with, if his grudging tone gives away his true feelings. "Sandals aren't exactly /practical/ for everyday work."

"But they are /my/ sandals. I made 'em and they fit my feet perfect and sometimes you just want your own stuff, you know?" Mae responds, coming up from her floor-dirtied knees. Youth on her side, it is a smooth movement. After the movement is concluded, a couple of bugs are quite evident upon her shorts. Her hand reaches down to flick them away, sending them to the floor. "I'm thinking it is the bloke who brings in all the fruit. Must be near here 'cause I'm smelling it now. They get attracted to it."

Rocco rolls his eyes in defeat. "I /know/, but for Faranth's sake, but I'm trying to offer you a solution to spending the day hopping about or barefoot." He squeaks when Mae's flicked bugs are send flying his way, lips curved down in a disgusted grimace. "/Don't/ send them at me! Who's bringing /fruit/ into the barracks? Surely they can't just be leaving /fruit/ sitting around under their cots? Of /course/ that'll bring bugs in… eurgh." Delicately, not wanting to get bug-gunk on his slippers but not wanting to be attacked by crawlies either, Rocco squishes some of the creepies with a very daint toe-crush.

Mae near to dances away from the spot she was resting, scuttling away to avoid a couple other bugs puttering along the floor. "It is like they keep on coming. Like some kind of… of… well, like something." A foot is shoved into a sandal, so that it is with a scuff-tat and the slightest of uneaven strides that has the girl moving away. "There be less bugs outside than here here, that's for sure."

Unable to argue with that, Rocco hops to his feet and away from the borrowed cot perch, looking utterly grossed out by the bugs. "Eurgh!" He protests, squishing another as he weaves his way back to his cot, sitting for just long enough to pull on socks and his well-worn ankle boots. A repeated groan of disgust comes as he squishes more creepies, before trotting (awkwardly, given the remainder of his limp - but he's just so desperate to get /out/ of there) towards the door. "They need to send in /someone/ to get rid of the damned things! I can't /sleep/ in there!"

Touching and Searching

Candidates get to touch eggs and Ryssim becomes a candidate

6/24/2012
09:37 PM
Logfile from Pippa.

Living Cavern
The smooth, rounded walls cavern sweep upward from an oval base, two dragonlengths long and one wide, large enough to seat every member of the Weyr at mealtimes. The soft blackness of the lava which forms these caverns swallows glowlight, so shelves for glowbaskets abound, dotting the walls every three or four paces and casting gentle greenish light toward the sparkles of gold volcanic glass embedded in the ceiling. Ancient, lustrous tables run along the axis of the cavern, and at the far end rests the raised dais and high table, where Weyrleaders and honored guests eat during formal occasions. Behind the high table, the Weyr's symbol is embedded into stone: a smoking mountain in black on an orange shield, trimmed in gold.
Perched near the food are sixteen firelizards.
You see Firelizard Tapestry, Living Cavern Notice Board, and Intra-Weyr Games Trophy here.
Ashkir and Ryssim are here.
Obvious exits:
Northeast Caverns Kitchens Bowl Southern Caverns

Ryssim
Lean and lanky, Ryssim has the rangy look of a teenager mid-growth-spurt. His limbs hang too long on his ropy frame, hands and feet awkwardly larger than necessary at his unimpressive height of 5'5". His calloused hands and wiry musculature are emblematic of a labor-intensive profession; these hard edges to him are offset by the elfin delicacy of his features. Wide green eyes, a dusting of freckles across his straight nose and high-boned cheeks, narrow face tipped off by a slender pointed chin. His deep auburn hair lies short and feathered over his lightly tanned face.
Clothing is, apparently, not something Ryssim pays very intensive attention to. His is clearly chosen out of pragmatism over style. His ankle-high boots are sturdy and in good repair, if rarely polished; his legwear tends towards cut-off shorts or plain trousers, his tunics are serviceable and neat, but rarely elegant.
He is a teenager of about 16. He is awake, but seems rather distracted.

Ashkir
Feathery light blond hair falls from the top of this young man's head and falls in uneven lengths about his head. His bangs are usually pushed off to the side of his head and hooked behind his ears, but they do have a tendancy to fall in front of his eyes every so often. Blonde eyebrows arch over his light blue eyes that seem to twinkle with unseeen mischief. The young man has a light tan to his skin, suggesting that he spends a lot of time outdoors, he seems to look a lot younger than he really is, suggesting that he never quite grew out of that awkward teenage faze. He also is rather short for his age and looks to be rather lacking in the muscular department. One's attention is usually drawn to his hands which are usually covered in various paints, and when they aren't covered by paints, they are covered by thin silver-colored scars from cutting himself.
Ashkir can usually be seen wearing a light brown leather shirt that looks like it has seen a couple of turns of use. The leather has long faded and and multiple patches can be seen sewn in. His pants aren't in any better condition, what used to be a black color looks more like gray colored with dust of the road.
He is a young adult of about 20. He is awake, but seems rather distracted.

Ashkir tilts his head and stands to his feet, shoving the rest of his food into his mouth, "Well, it wouldn't be so bad. I'm thinking of just putting down some large piece of wood, wrapping it in rope or something like that. It'd have to be dug in really deep and have a bit of support. Maybe build a wall like that, it could work." He takes a moment to swallow down his food, "I should get back, I was just gonna grab a quick bite to eat. Maybe I could run some ideas against you some other time and have you draw it down for me?"

"I could do that." Ryssim's smile stretches genuinely wider, head bobbing once in a nod. "And if you need help. With the digging or anything. Maybe not the planning. But I can dig just fine." His stylus waggles at the other man, perhaps a gesture passing for a wave. "I'll see you 'round, yeah?" He does not really wait to see an answer, turning his attention back to the sketchpad in his lap.

Pippa sweeps through the cavern like a whirling dervish… or maybe just Pippa upon a mission. Her wrap floats about her tanned calves, fluttering with her movements. Sandal-clad feet patter across the hard rock flooring, "Come along, kiddoes. Time to touch my eggs. Get along now. UpUpUp." Pause. "I see you over there Ashkir, you better be talking about my fence. But right now, you'll be touching some eggs. Come along." The woman continues along, only to pause as the sight of Ryssim, frown slightly, give the teen a look from scalp to toes, cluck her tongue, then snap her fingers. "You know what. You come too, kid. UpUp. No. No sketching. Don't get your nose in there so quickly. Come touch some eggs." Yep. She means you too, Ryssim. Clear by the finger pointing at right at him, then wiggling as if in a 'come hither' sort of move.

Ashkir perks up as he hears his name, his eyes flicker up to glance the weyrwoman whirling into the living caverns. "Oh, hey Pippa." Blinkblink, "I was talking about the fence, trying to figure out how it could work out." He rubs at the back of his head, looking from the weyrwoman to Ryssim behind him. "A touching? Now?" Well, at least it's excusing him from chores! "Sure, I'll come look at the eggs."

"Me?" Ryssim's eyes open wide, though this stare is, initially, focused down at his sketchpad. It takes a second for him to lift it, tucking his stylus behind his ear as he does so. He slides slowly off the table that he sits on to stand on the floor, hugging his sketchpad against his chest. "Touch — your eggs?" This earns Pippa a very bemused(and perhaps a little wary) look towards her midsection. "Okay but — aren't those — don't those live inside you?"

"Aye, now. Did I stutter? I mean what I'm saying here. You come with me. You touch my Jeyth's eggs. You get familiar with those shells and some folks sometimes get… well, I'll just leave that unsaid. You feel what you feel. So aye, come now and touch the eggs," Pippa responds, leveling a look first at Ashkir and then over to Ryssim, "Touch. My. Eggs." Beat. "On the sands. Just, out…" She trails off, stops, stares, stares some more at Ryssim, and then stares some more just because she can, "Oi, you're a literal bastard, aren't you? I can either come over there and smack your bottom or you can get your arse up and move it towards the hatching sands before I plant my foot in a place so no eggs anywhere will do you any good to your future generations." There is a moment, then she continues, "So, you wanna go or not?" It isn't until she is done speaking that a wry grin touches her lips.

Right, Ashkir is moving his ass! No more talking from him, instead, he eats the last of his food and quickly follows on the heels of the weyrwoman, "C'mon Ryssim, she invited you, let's get going." He flahses a grin at him, laughing loudly at the weyrwoman's reaction, but he's certainly not going to comment. The jury's still out on that decision. "I'm ready to go ma'am."

Ryssim's wide-eyed stare gets even wider. "Your /Jeyth's/ — oh. Oh! /You're/ the — /oh/." He swallows, shrinking slightly back, and lowers the sketchpad he holds juuust a little bit. "I'm coming!" And the teenager does, scampering quickly after the weyrwoman. "I didn't know that — I mean I've never seen — I mean, I'm new here," he says with a duck of his head.

Pippa's dark eyebrows lift after Ryssim's word. "Aye, that I am. Best you make a note of it, kiddo. Good thing you are at least quick on your feet here. I'll give you that." She flashes both of the boys a broad wink before clicking her fingers and striding out to the bowl. "Best get you right involved in the Weyr then kid. Nothing like an initiation by getting to touch what is most precious to us. No, you aren't going to get to touch T'ab. Just Jeyth's eggs." And with that said, she heads out.

Hatching Grounds
The heat here is stifling, encompassing, swallowing mind and hazing sight into waved oblivion. Sparkling, coarse black sand simmers with volcanic urgency underfoot, its hillocks and dunes arranged to queen's liking; reflected light filters in, offered not even perceived respite. When empty, the vault of this cavern is hushed, still that echoes and rebounds; when occupied, it is intensified.
Gold Jeyth and brown Ruenalth are here.
You see Mound of Eggs here.
Obvious exits:
Entrance
Ryssim walks out onto the sands.
Ashkir walks out onto the sands.
Rocco sashays out onto the sands.

A hatching cavern is a hatching cavern is a hatching cavern. Dark sands, a small number of eggs littering the sands, a BIG DRAGON stationed over there, on her haunches, looking to those coming out onto the sands. Yes, Jeyth is watching. Pippa leads the candidates (and Ryssim) along towards the sands, waving to Rocco as they move along, "Come along with! Touching eggs. Any of you done this before?"

Rocco was heading back to the barracks when beckoned by Pippa, and he's more than happy to fall in line and be marched out ont othe Sands. "I've done it," he says, raising his hand like a good Harper-taught kid. "Though it's been… Faranth, well more than a turn now since I was last on any hatching sands." And he'd forgotten how hot they can be too, as he looks gingerly down at his sandal-clad feet.

Ashkir is hot on the Pippa's heels though his pace starts to slow as they actually enter the sands. His eyes dart around the area, "It doesn't look much different down here than it does up in the gallaries," he observes, his attention turning to the main reason why they're there: eggs. "I've never done it." He shifts on the sands, it is rather hot on the sands, after all.

Ryssim arrives on the stands still clutching his sketchpad to his chest, every bit as wide-eyed as he was when the Weyrwoman first spoke to him. The teenager shakes his head, slow and a bit awed as he looks around the hatching sands. Maybe also a bit sweaty, perspiration beading on his forehead. Possibly from heat. Possibly from nerves. "No'm, I've never — I've only even been at the Weyr a few -" He frowns in thought, but then, distracted by another thought, asks instead (murmured somewhat quieter, to Ashkir), "— are we supposed to touch /T'ab/ some time?" His murmur fades away into a heavy swallow as he looks at the clutchmother. "Wow," is all he manages, nervous-small and wondering.

Pippa turns her head to look back at Rocco, grinning to him, "Well, must like anything… not much to it. Just watch yourself around the eggs. If you suddenly feel some pain and it all goes dark on you, you've clearly done something bad. I don't want that. You don't want that. Don't do anything bad and it'll all go well. Go ahead and check out them eggs." So it is with those words that Pippa peels off and heads for Jeyth, clucking her tongue, "Hey, girl. I know, they ain't much, but we'll let them cop a feel here to get used to 'em."

Rocco looks up to Jeyth with a cautious smile, remembering enough from times before to offer her a bow before he takes a step forward - though it's not without giving Ashkir a wink first. "Slow and steady," he offers the blonde, with a little finger-waggle of hello for the unknown teen beyond him, grinning at his question. "I can't say I'd be so opposed to copping a feel of the /Weyrleader/." Then the once-beautician is moving out amongst the eggs, making a beeline for the My, You Look Fletching one.

A quiver. A breath of wind. It is the whistle that tickles like an exhale of a breeze across the nape of your neck. It is the pause, that pregnant pause where all is still, all is centered on that touch. Where the wait seems to take forever, and ever, and ever. And… THERE. The release is another exhale but the response is quick, fast, sure, and heart-striking. BOOM.

Pippa makes a comment from where she is, near to Jeyth, "Long as it is only a feel, kid. Don't let T'ab try to get you to do any more than that."

"Um, I don't really like feeling people up that I'm not really familiar with." Ashkir chimes in as he eyes the eggs, trying to decide which one he's most interested in. Rocco gets a little wave in greeting, "Don't say something like that, you're going to make me even more nervous!" And then he's moving slowly forward, making sure to move carefully. He pauses before the Splish Splash Egg and brushes his fingers against the shell curiously.

Synchronized with touch comes… touch. It is a mirror of feeling. With each brush, there is a brush in kind, a sweep across the senses to copy, to mimic, to return in perfect response. Nervous? No. Not that though. But sure. Sure in mimicry. Ashkir see - Egg Do. What you do, this egg will do. Do. Do.

Ryssim is distracted by Rocco's finger-waggle, giving a rather puzzled look between Rocco and Ashkir. And then another one. His brow furrows in confusion, but rather than make comment, he turns his attention back to the eggs. "Will he try?" This idea seems to intrigue him, or perhaps he is just trying to distract himself from the Very Large Dragon nearby. He approaches the eggs slowly, splitting his attention between them and Jeyth. In the end he heads towards Flame On Egg, placing a tentative hand against it. Very tentative.

FLARE. Sparks. Embers. Glow. This is fire. This is the life and the heat and the light. Orange and red and yellow are typical, the blue is fainter, flickering, tickling the senses with a hint of what is within. The longer the touch, the deeper the singe. Touch too long and you may get burned.

"Ooooh." A gentle shudder runs through Rocco, who slowly draws his hand back from the egg with a strange sort of grin. He leans down to whisper something quietly to its coppery shell, stroking a fingertip delicately across it before stepping back and moving on to the next one - the Trinity Egg. He stands beside it, contemplating it for a moment, before reaching out to place his palm on the smooth shell.

There is a quiet serenity to this egg, a stillness that surpasses any sort of quiet to that of the mind. Dedication is here. Training. And there is one fine set of reactions. For just as quick as you touch, that within responds just as quick. It is a flurry of images, a flurry of bluring actions that seem to attack your senses, hitting here, there, there and here again, striking to score points in your mind and soul. Take that! And That! And THAT!

Ashkir blinks at the egg and he quickly moves to drop his arm, "Whoa, wierd." He stands to his feet and peers at the egg, as if contemplating it. "That is certainly not what I was expecting." He seems to pause a moment to gather himself together and meanders over towards the Open to Interpretation egg, tilting his head at it and brushing his fingertips very tentatively at it.

The cavern may be silent but there is a music here. Rhythmic. It sounds from somewhere else, maybe somewhere exotic, maybe somewhere familiar. But there is music, lyrical and beautiful, perfect in symbolism and artistic in ways that can hardly be quantified. A silken touch, a glossy shine of a sphere, a perfect hoop that circles all, circles your mind.

Ryssim can't help his quiet gasp a moment after contact. Despite the initial surprise, the smith apprentice actually seems to relax, some, his palm brushing gentle but less nervous over the egg's shell. A small smile pulls at his lips, and his hand lingers on the shell a long moment — until abruptly he pulls it away with a hiss of breath between his teeth, shaking his hand slightly and wiping his palm against his shorts. Swallowing again, the sweat is beaded just a little slicker on his forehead as he makes his way over to the next egg. He hesitates a moment before brushing his fingertips down over Sweeping the Competition Egg, lightly.

Swish. A sound that seems to come from behind, sliding towards you, through you, scrubbing your mind to make everything slide that much more perfectly into place. A little more. A little more. A little… there. What touches back curls right into the idea spot, clicking against your thoughts, bumping them out of the way so what is in that egg can settle itself right there instead. Hi.

Rocco jerks in response to the egg he's touching, almost pulling away - but holding back enough to not break the contact just yet. He doesn't linger long though, looking down at the shell as if it's… well, as if he's wary of touching it again. Moving away, he edges past Ashkir and gives the Reachian a quick wink before settling his hand in a delicate touch against the London Calling Egg.

Is this foreign? Is this different? Is this the home away from home? A curl of smoke, maybe of steam, licks across your senses, a little sooty, maybe a little yellow, maybe a little grey, but it licks, easing in like a fog. Mysterious? Familiar? It is a layer of industry upon a layer of something far, far older. An old soul in new clothes.

Ashkir's hand cants and he seems to look around, as if searching for something. Finally he lets his hand drop and considers the caverns again. His arms cross over his waist and he taps at his arms thoughtfully. Rocco gets a quick grin as he passes by and Ashkir looks at the other eggs. Finally he's moving again, this time he heads towards the You'll Never Skate Again! Egg and brushes his fingers against it.

Skating on thin ice here. As fragile as that shell. On the surface, on that first touch there is beauty, serenity, a swirl of sequins and lace and smooth delight. Is it a facade though? CRACK… what was changes to power, deception, a triple axle of blues and pinks that spiral into your senses, chilling with how precise, how planned it was to draw you in and then CRACK. Again. Right to your gut, or lower. What are you made of? Can you take it? Do you want this that much?

This egg just makes Ryssim blink, intrigued. His head turns slightly, as if listening to something, and then he examines the egg with a deeper note of curiosity. He pulls away from the egg slowly, a quiet thoughtful hum escaping him. The Open to Interpretation Egg gets his attention next, his touch still slow and careful.

The cavern may be silent but there is a music here. Rhythmic. It sounds from somewhere else, maybe somewhere exotic, maybe somewhere familiar. But there is music, lyrical and beautiful, perfect in symbolism and artistic in ways that can hardly be quantified. A silken touch, a glossy shine of a sphere, a perfect hoop that circles all, circles your mind.

Pippa comes away from where she is with Jeyth, looking up at momma before looking back to the candidates. "I'm thinking you all have just about touched enough here before she comes to bully you out. So make your last feels here, then we'll be going. You all did real well."

Rocco smiles down at the egg beneath his touch, eyes half-closed in happy contemplation. "I like you," he leans down to murmur softly to its smooth surface, before giving it a delicate little pat and moving on to the Flame On Egg. He's only just pressed his palm to it when Pippa announces the end of the session, and he nods at her to confirm that he's heard, understood, and will follow orders.

FLARE. Sparks. Embers. Glow. This is fire. This is the life and the heat and the light. Orange and red and yellow are typical, the blue is fainter, flickering, tickling the senses with a hint of what is within. The longer the touch, the deeper the singe. Touch too long and you may get burned

Ryssim looks a bit transfixed by this egg, staring at it wide and wondering as his fingers trace across the shell. Pippa's voice cuts into his reverie, and he looks up with a faint touch of colour in his cheeks. "Did well," he echoes half to himself, as he nods at the Weyrwoman's words. "What's doing badly?" As if it will, perhaps, answer his question for him, he turns to Careful of the Current Egg, touching it curiously.

The second there is a touch the rest is white. It rushes at you, splashes into your mind, fills you up from toes to scalp and all of the little places in between that deserve to be drenched. Splash after splash, endless cascades of adventure and excitement, enough to make your heart race, take your breath away, steal it and never give it back 'til you release the touch. Drowning. Taking.

Ashkir winces and quickly drops his hand to grip at his head. The candidate pauses, holding his head between his hands and massaging at his temples, he peeksup to glance at the weyrwoman when she speaks. There's slow movement from the candidate, as if trying to collect himself together. "I think I'll stop here, I feel a headache coming on." He ambles away from the eggs and massages at his temples.

Rocco pulls his hand back from the egg he's touching quickly, shaking it out as if he's touched something hot. That's the end of his touching, and he backs up to join Ashkir, hovering by the candidate's side. "Thank you for letting us out here, weyrwoman Pippa, Jeyth." He's got a polite bob of his head for the two, and then waits to be dismissed.

Ryssim gasps, but it is not the happy kind that the first egg prompted from him. It sounds a little strangled, a little short of air, his face somewhat too pale beneath its smattering of freckles. The breaths he draws in afterwards are slightly struggling and slightly panicked, until he jerks his hand away from the egg with a relieved expression. He eyes it warily, backing away from the clutch. "Yes," he says, still a little breathlessly, "thank you. Both of you." He joins the candidates, shifting a little awkwardly on the hot sands.

Pippa's smile curves the slightest as she looks from one candidate to the next. Her gaze lifts though, moving to look at Jeyth, offering her 'mate a wink. "Looks like your kids, once more, are leaving them a little struck there." It is with a chuckle that the woman moves away, arms extending out to either side as if in a herding gesture. There is a lick of her lips, then she is looking to Ashkir, "Buck up, candidate. Headache is the least of your worries when all is said and done. Bit more will be aching before you finally get to see these things hatch." The woman flashes a broad smile to Rocco, her head inclining the slightest. But her eyes fall back on Ryssim, "You accorded yourself well out there, kid. I'm of half of a mind here to make you an official candidate. Those eggs there interest you any?" Oh yes, it is a secretive, if self-satisfied grin that she has.

Ashkir closes his eyes and continues to hold his head between his fingers, seeming to take a moment to himself. When he hears Rocco pad over, he cracks an eye to peer at the other candidate, and then his attention is going back to the weyrwoman and he lets his arms fall to his sides. "Thanks for letting us touch the eggs." However, his curiosity goes towards Ryssim, blinking as the weyrwoman asks him to be a candidate. "I'm alright, just…it was a little too much, I think." He finally mumbles to the weyrwoman.

Curiosity has Rocco's light blue gaze travelling over to Ryssim, his head canted slightly to one side. "That sounds like a pretty sweet offer, y'know. It's not /half/ as bad as what it could be." He winks at the Smith, then grins over at Pippa. Ashkir's given a gentle nudge - one that's wary of the way the lad looks a bit… iffy.

It seems that Ryssim is not getting a break from his wide-eyed surprise; he turns that look on the Weyrwoman again, hugging the sketchpad that he still clutches just a bit tighter. "Really? I mean, I could — be a —" He glances between the other two candidates. "The eggs /are/ really very interesting," he says slowly. "I mean, I think that would be — really — thank you. Really great." He ducks his head, cheek tinging a little pink again. "But I don't know how to build fences," he confides.

Pippa slants a look across at Ashkir, but it isn't sympathetic. Oh no, it is far more amused than anything else. The kid is lucky she doesn't reach out to give him a good ol' chuck on the shoulder. Her eyes move away though, grinning some more at Rocco's words, then the woman is focused back on Ryssim, "Aye, you could. We'll even let you touch T'ab. Imagine all the perks of that." *cough* "Ah, I'll give you another project if you come along with me. You know anything about getting rid of bugs?"

Touching 2

Ilae kidnaps candidates for a touching.

Living Cavern
The smooth, rounded walls cavern sweep upward from an oval base, two dragonlengths long and one wide, large enough to seat every member of the Weyr at mealtimes. The soft blackness of the lava which forms these caverns swallows glowlight, so shelves for glowbaskets abound, dotting the walls every three or four paces and casting gentle greenish light toward the sparkles of gold volcanic glass embedded in the ceiling. Ancient, lustrous tables run along the axis of the cavern, and at the far end rests the raised dais and high table, where Weyrleaders and honored guests eat during formal occasions. Behind the high table, the Weyr's symbol is embedded into stone: a smoking mountain in black on an orange shield, trimmed in gold.

Ilae
Turns of practice have finally mostly tamed the rampant auburn curls upon Ilae's head. To keep them from becoming a hassle, the greenrider almost always keeps her hair no longer than her shoulders, and sometimes even shorter than that. Green eyes that once danced still show flashes of that youthfulness from time to time, but seriousness more oft than not is present within them. A jagged scar that has faded slightly over the turns is still visible on her left cheek, and the scars of threadscoring are still visible upon her neck. Narrow eyebrows and a gentle nose combine with a stubborn jaw and almost equally stubborn lips complete the woman, while calloused hands and tannish skin suggest she is no stranger to work or sun. Ilae stands at only five feet four inches tall.
A finely crafted pair of riding leathers adorn Ilae's frame. Neither sophisticated or simple, they are simply designed for comfort and warmth while riding. A pair of matching boots are upon Ilae's feet. Two firelizards are perched on her shoulders.
In as mint condition as a knot can be, the knot of a wingleader rests on Ilae's shoulder, in Ista Weyr black and orange. The badge below indicates her as the Wingleader of the Riptide wing. A thread of green through it denotes her as Suumanuth's rider.
She is an adult of about 30. She is awake and looks alert.
Ilae has no apparent threadscoring.

Lucian
The first thing of note with this young man is, well, he's not small. Tall, usually about a handwith taller than most people in a room, his build is barrel-chested and muscular from many Turns in Smithy apprenticeship. His hair is a tangled curled reddish mess, the brilliant red splattered about like a bowl of sauce atop his head. His eyes are the kind of hazel that shifts color in the light and at times appear to do so with his mood. Prominent cheekbones, a nose that perhaps a bit to wide and flat dusted with a couple hundred little freckles of various shades of brown, and a workable set of lips finalize the man.
A thick lightly green colored tunic hangs on him in a manner of one that grows to often to worry about a tailored fit. Below, faded black pants with just a few utility pockets and more than a few patches, fastened at the top by a wide black belt, stretch down to a pair of old black boots that look like their cobbled together from two older pairs.
He is a teenager of about 19. He is awake and looks alert.

Ilae is a woman on a mission, it would seem. Though quiet as is usual, she makes her way into the middle of the living caverns from the kitchen and stops near a table. "Excuse me." She remarks to whomever may be at the table, before pouring herself a drink of some sort. "Now, let's see.." The surrounding area is examined. For what? The bugs infesting the barracks, right now? Something else? But then white knots are spotted, and Ilae approaches. Not quite as loomingly as she'd probably hope.

Even sitting down as he is presently Lucian is not the easiest of people to loom over. Having just about taken over a table it has spread across it a number of the tools of his trade. His attention was initially focused on some thin bit of wood in front of him. He would scrape lightly at it with one blade, then pull out another before going back to work on some other detail. Lucky for him we was in the middle of swapping out tools, which means he was inspecting the new tool for lovely tiny little yellow things when he caught Ilae out of the corner of his eye. Dropping the blade to the table with a clatter he gets to his feet, which makes the whole looming over thing likely more or less impossible. "Hello ma'am," He offers looking to Ilae, "Is there something you needed?"

And Ilae's own size is…well. She's not anywhere near the tallest people of the weyr. Someone better hope her children inherit their father's heights! The greenrider smiles wryly when the woodcrafter clambers to his feet, and she dismisses the salute with a wave. "Nice salute." He's eyed, and the other candidates in the area are eyed. "Yes, I suppose you could say that." She replies thoughtfully. "You two," she points at a couple of candidates, "and yourself, Lu… Remind me of your name, Candidate? The three of you will be coming with me." Anyone who feels like fleeing should probably do so now!

"Yes Ma'am, Lucian Ma'am, if you will allow me a moment I will be right with you Ma'am." Lucian states in the manner of an apprentice more than a little used to having to jump when his teacher said jump. He turns slightly away from her, leaving his fellow candidates to reply, or flee, or add yellow moisture to the floor while he returns all his tools to their proper place as quickly and efficiently as possible then rolls his kit closed. He does not remove it from the table at the moment however in case whatever she wants is not well suited for toting a collection of carving tools along. That done he steps away from the table and turns his attention back to Ilae. "Ready when you are Ma'am."

Hatching Grounds
The heat here is stifling, encompassing, swallowing mind and hazing sight into waved oblivion. Sparkling, coarse black sand simmers with volcanic urgency underfoot, its hillocks and dunes arranged to queen's liking; reflected light filters in, offered not even perceived respite. When empty, the vault of this cavern is hushed, still that echoes and rebounds; when occupied, it is intensified.

Ilae waits patiently for the much larger person to be ready, and when it's clear that he and his fellow Candidates are, starts marching off. Quietly. How does she walk quietly in boots? It is, however, clear she expects to be followed…right on out of the weyr proper. Right to the Hatching Caverns. Right to the Sands. Just before the black sands the eggs rest upon, she turns to the following candidates. "Remember: bow to the clutch parents, /WALK/, and if you need to leave, say so. Do /not/ run. One egg at a time, and don't stay at an egg for too long." With that said, they are free!

Lucian, and his things that pass for boots, is not quite so quiet as he follows behind. But at least the clomp of his footfalls has a good steady rhythm, or it did until it finally dawned on him where exactly they were headed. When his eyes take note of the black sand he stumbles half a step. His expression takes on a certain hint of worry and perhaps his face loses a bit of color. Oddly enough though the worried glance is not directed at the clutch parents, but instead it is offered to the eggs themselves. Which for some reason he seems very reluctant to turn his back on even as he bows respectfully to Jeyth and Ruenalth. Wandering over to this Open to Interpretation Egg, he reluctantly touches his hand to its leathery surface.

Swish. Slap. Your heart is racing, your arms moving faster than you knew they could. There is no fear - no, that is not true, there is a little fear. Fear of failure? Fear of slipping? But where fear perhaps should have taken hold, there is a steady confidence instead. You can do this. You know this dance, you could do the steps in your sleep. Swish. Slap. Your breathing accelerates, and you concentrate harder. So close, /so/ /close/… And then it's gone, and you're back on the scorching hot black sands, your hand never having left the egg's surface.

Ilae lurks nearby. Not close enough to be intimidating, but close enough to be keeping a close eye on Candidates, eggs, and clutchparents alike. No one's disobeying the Rules, so Ilae doesn't feel the need to speak. Every few minutes, as a Candidate switches eggs, however, she moves. All in sight? Roger!

A blink, two, Lucian gives a shake of his head as hazel eyes shift between focused and unfocused a few times before settling down. He eyes the egg a moment, a thoughtful look curling his lip, before offering it a gentle pat and stepping away. There is something slightly different about his movements for the next few steps, they are a bit more rhythmic and graceful, which looks just a tad absurd with his large frame. Making his way around the long way to avoid turning his back on any of the eggs he closes the distance between him and the White Elephant of Athletics Egg. Which he touches with a hint less hesitation.

It's beautiful, the scene in front of you. Indescribably, irrevocably, beautiful. Anything you want, anything you see…it is yours. All you need to do is ask of it. All you need to do…is make a deal. All that glitters is not gold, in this vision of irresistible belongings, possessions, items you could never afford. But the deal you must make weighs heavily upon your mind. Is it worth it? Is all of that, worth what you must give up? Is it? It's so irresistible…and all so nearby…but dare you give everything you have up for what surely must be a fleeting dream? Is it worth it? Dare you?

If glanced at, Ilae nods reassuringly. She's still keeping an eye on candidates and clutch parents alike, and it's safe to say she'll let her victims of choice know when it's time to disengage. But the finish line hasn't yet appear, and all are in the clear. At least, until one of the other two candidates start looking queasy. Ilae escorts that one off the Sands.

Lucian's mouth moves, offering words that carry no sound to ears that cannot hear them. He is hesitant to pull his hand away, and reaches ouch as if to touch the egg again once he does. Pausing just a breath away from contact, his hand hangs there trembling slightly before he closes it into a fist and pulls away. He watches the egg as he walks away, so distracted is he by it that he is not paying as much attention to where his feet are headed as he should. He stumbles over some uneven sand and starts to teeter on his feet briefly, managing to catch his balance without landing on or bumping into anything. However, in his attempt to rebalance himself, his arms stretch out in such and awkward way that his hand brushes against the Perfect Poise egg.

Careful, steady now! Do you have your center of balance? Are you poised perfectly? Do you feel the lungs racing for air between your legs, exhilarated by mere excitement? Can you control yourself? The runner you're upon? Or are you heading straight for disaster? You'd better be careful, lest you find yourself in over your head. You left everything in perfect order, didn't you? Are you sure? No time for second guessing, ready, steady….go!

Ilae spots Lucian's attempt to rebalance himself, and enters the grouping of eggs carefully while he's distracted. If his elbow isn't too high out of her reach, she'll grab it to rebalance him. Hopefully. "Careful, Candidate." She admonishes, eyes narrowed. "You good? I think we're good for one more, unless you're done." A quick glance is cast the the dragons on the sands, to confirm the thinking.

"Sorry, sorry…" Lucian replies in a low distracted voice that oddly enough doesn't seem to be directed so much towards the one that offered him assistance to something unseen, though he does seem genuinely sorry never the less. His movements are particularly careful as he dismounts thin air and finally looks to Ilae as if just now noticing she was there, "Yes Ma'am, I'm good Ma'am, one more Ma'am." He chooses his steps carefully, one after another until he reaches his final goal, Cheering, Roaring, Crowded egg.

As soon as your hand touches the egg, your head fills with cheers. Various dialects, slurred words, and in maybe a few cases, insults are shouted from all around you. But even if you're claustrophobic, the voices shouldn't be too overwhelming. Glance around, and you'll see…you're the star of this show. All of those cheers, the good and the bad, they're for you, kid. Don't forget to breathe, and do what you've been training to do. You've got this. You can DO this. This show's all yours, and you, Lucian, determine the outcome. Just as you start to move to prove the happy cheers true, contact with the egg breaks, and you find yourself on the smoltering sands once again.

Ilae releases the candidate once sure he's steady, and disengages from the eggs herself. Lucian and the remaining candidate are watched, and once she's certain they'll be listening, she says loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough to startle, "not too bad. Come on out, carefully, and you may return to what you were doing before." Relief from the sands from all involved!

Lucian takes a sudden step forward, assuming a stance, ready to do… Something. He blinks a few times, looking down to his hands as if they might have some clue as to what he was about to do. His head cocks a bit to one side, eyebrows knit as he frowns thoughtfully. He's certain it was important if only he could. He lifts his gaze from the sands, nodding and offering a soft, "Yes Ma'am," as he and his fellow candidates are told to leave. He's very careful of the eggs, tip toeing around them so slowly that he is the last to leave them behind. A final bow is offered to Jeyth and Ruenalth along with a simple "Thanks" before he leaves the sands.